


It Rains Before It Pours

by TwistedViolets



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Blood, Child Abuse, Drugs, Forced Handjobs, Heavy Angst, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, More angst, Reggie is a terrible person, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Removal of Soul marks, Self Esteem Issues, Self Harm, Sibling Bonding, Soul Bond, Soulmark shenanigans, Soulmates AU, Suicidal Thoughts, aphrodisiac drugs, soul marks, the mausoleum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedViolets/pseuds/TwistedViolets
Summary: Klaus was four years old when he had first felt the tingling heat spread across his wrist, a name was being scratched into his skin. They called this a soul mark. He had been waiting for his.He begged his father to read it to him, just tell him what it said because he was too young to read it himself.His father had thought about it for a moment before he had gotten an eyeful of the name on his wrist. He immediately looked sick, like he might throw up or maybe like he was scared.Klaus isn't sure, all he knows is now he doesn't have a soul mark, his father made sure of that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream last night about this and I just couldn’t shake it. The tags will update with the story so be aware. This will probably be a short one but I won’t put a chapter amount on it because I’m not sure on the length yet.

He had been playing with Two when he felt it, the sensation of heat covering his wrist. At first, it burns, then it just numbed out in a simple sharp pain crawling along his wrist as a name is etched in his flesh.

He cried, tears rolled down his cheeks before he could help it. He whimpered and kept his wrist toward his chest until his brother insisted on seeing it. Two had already had his soul mark, he was born with it.

Two looked at it in wonder, his fingers dancing over the reddened, raw marks on his wrist. It hurt, he hissed when his brother pushed a little too hard.

"How...a-amazing," his brother stutter as his eyes lit up.

He whimpered again as a couple droplets of blood started to form on the letters of his soul mark.

————————————————————

"I've got my soul mark," he said, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet like a child while his father read a book. A book for grown-ups, he's been told many times before.

"Sure you have," his father says not even looking up from his book.

He pouts, sticking his lips out as he blushes.

"But I have! Look! Please dad," he begs, his cheeks redden to an extreme level as his father flips a page in his book.

"Dad!" He takes a step closer, stomping his foot like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum. This got his father's attention.

His father shuts the book, the small thud it made forced his heart to jump as he receives the heat from a glare. "There will be none of that in my house," he says, extending his hand and grasping his arm, pulling.

He hisses as his father grasps at his flesh that is still sensitive and raw, it hurts. "You will not do such a thing again," his father’s tone threatening to his ears while tightening his grip, it's tight enough to leave bruises.

"But I've gotten my mark," he says, whimpers as his father finally looks at his wrist. "See?"

His father hums for a moment, looking at it, rubbing a finger over the name etched in his wrist. "Can you read it for me?" He asks, hoping his puppy eyes are enough. "Please?"

His father digs his nails in the mark, he yelps as he tries to rip his wrist away but he isn't strong enough to. "How disgusting," his father says as he pulls, looking at the name on his wrist as he might be sick. He stands, leaving the book on the couch as he drags him to the kitchen.

"Dad?"

His father grabs a knife from the kitchen drawer.

"What's wrong?"

His father turns on the stove, a flame flickers and he heats the knife on it.

"What are you doing?" His voice a sad, childish sound that his father easily ignored. His stomach churns, oatmeal threatens to come up his throat as his veins started to run cold. "Father?"

His father removed the knife from the lit flame, it's red now. He tightens his grip on his wrist, it hurts so much, he can't escape that grasp. His father pulls, extending his wrist out as he brings the red hot knife on it, over his soul mark, erasing it.

It hurts.

He screams as he tries to pull away but he soon realizes that does nothing so he kicks and punches but he's no more than a young child. His efforts to escape yield nothing.

Tears flow down his face, his lips tremble as he keeps screaming as if he's being murdered.

His skin is being burned off, a part of him that is so valuable will be ruined.

He collapses, his knees give out as his father lets up on the knife. He sits at his father's feet, his body convulsing as a sickening pain shot through his body before a numbing sensation followed. 

It hurt so much.

His father examines his now burnt wrist before sighing with contentment.

"Much better," his father rubbed a finger over the burn mark, making him sob. "Let's get this bandaged before you get an infection."

————————————————————

His wrist is bandaged up, he laughs as he tells his siblings that there was an accident. Nothing but bad luck that caused him so much pain.

"I'm so sorry," Seven says rubbing her own wrist, the one that still doesn't have a mark.

"That's a shame," One says as he pats his back.

"That's suspicious," Five says but is shushed by Three.

"Does it still hurt?" Three coos, rubbing a hand softly on his cheek, rubbing away all of the tears that had left a wet residue there. He feels so fuzzy inside, he always does when he’s shown attention or kindness like this.

"It's not that bad, father gave me medicine for the pain."

"That's good," Six says but his voice has a strange tone to it.

"I sh-shouldn't have let you...you run off all al-alone," Two mutters, rubbing his side as he exudes guilt.

He smiles at them, hiding the pain underneath his calm exterior. "I'm fine I swear," he laughs, leaning back before closing his eyes. "There's no need to feel so guilty."

————————————————————

There is a scar on his wrist, just big enough to obscure his soul mark. Now he'll never know and it hurts, scares him a lot because now his future isn't set in stone.

He wonders if his father is happy now, if this is really what he wanted. What was on his wrist? What was the name etched on his skin? His father seemed to hate it so much.

He smiles to himself as he rolls over in bed, moonlight pouring on him. He tries not to focus on his wrist, accepting that maybe it's better like this. He's freer now right? From fate or whatever dictated these things.

He'll live on his own terms.

He'll let the mystery spur him on.

His father is a cruel man, taking away this part of him so painfully and forcing him to live as a blank slate.

A bird chirps outside his window, lulling him to sleep with its song.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaus is thirteen now, and will be for most of the story~

"Séance!"

"Four!"

He ignores the crowds yelling as he stands with his siblings, waiting to be interviewed. The news reporter turned to them her eyes glowing with envy and Curiosity. "Four," she says holding the microphone gently. "Is it true you don't have a soul mark?" She extends the microphone towards him now and he glares a little. 

"Unfortunately true, there was an accident when I was a child that left me unmarked," he raises his arm to the crowd before rolling down his sleeve revealing a white flashy scar where his soul mark should be.

The crowd gasps.

He smiles as there's a murmur.

He enjoys the spotlight on him, although this is a rather cruel question. His father's eyes are focused on him, narrowed as he calculates something.

"One, was there a plan B if plan A went sour?" The reporter asks almost with a little squeak, she's probably a fan. He rolls his eyes as Luther speaks because of course there was a plan B, he is the leader he's got to be prepared for everything and anything.

Always be prepared for the unexpected his father has told them many times before. Luther took those words to heart which is why they always ended up with way too many backup plans.

————————————————————

"What do you think she's like?" He sucks on his lollipop, one which he had received from a fan and his father looked down upon. It could be poisoned he said with an air of all-knowing authority.

If it was poisoned so be it, he wasn't giving up candy.

"Perfect of course," Diego says rubbing a finger across the word on his wrist, the letters spelling 'Eudora.'

"Soul mates are your other half you know," he continues rubbing the name again, looking at it so passionately that it makes him want to barf.

"Oh how nice," he said licking his lollipop, drinking down the cherry flavoring. "Guess I'll never know how that feels..."

Diego looks at him, a frown crawling across his lips as he drops his wrist. "I'm sorry," he whispers, it almost looks like he's dancing on glass, like the subject is a sore one.

It isn't really.

He hadn't had a chance to get attached to his soul mark, so it only irritates him. Makes he feel as if every waking moment he's missing out on something special. It isn't something he thinks about too often.

"I bet she's pretty...and feisty," he says as he bites down on the lollipop, breaking it into a million pieces on his tongue.

"Yeah," his brother mutters as he rubs a hand through his hair.

He had thought about it, the name on his wrist, not really who it is but why it upset his father. It had to be bad, he figures that maybe it was for his greater good. How would you know from a name whether the person was bad or good?

It took him a while to really come up with an answer to his father's madness.

The name on his wrist probably belonged to a guy. He's smiling just thinking about it...before he even knew he had a thing for guys his body did or fate or whatever dictated these things.

————————————————————

Ben doesn't have a soul mark yet.

His wrist is unscathed, pure, just a pale piece of flesh that moves each time he flips a page in his book. "Do you think you'll ever get a soul mark?" He asks him, crossing his arms as he leans back on the living room couch.

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't."

"I see," he rubs a hand against his side.

"It's not something I'm worried about," his brother says, shrugging, "fate is a strange thing, it's out of our control."

He nods his head as he stretches his hands above himself and yawns. He stands, grabbing his glass off the floor, carrying it as he walks to the kitchen to get more water.

He stops in the doorway, his skin crawling for some strange reason. There is a creak and a dripping sound, he contemplates turning around before shaking his head. He's silly, getting so unnerved from his mother cooking dinner.

He takes a step in the kitchen before stopping dead in his tracks.

His heart thumping louder and louder as he watches the red substance run down his father's wrist. A knife in his opposite hand as he carves his wrist.

There's blood, it drips off into the sink, his father's eyes are trained on it as his mouth is drawn in a thin line. It's a scary look on his face, he's so calm while he's doing something so horrific.

There's a terrible sense of deja vu that hits him as he watches. His hands grasping the glass so tightly, his palms sweating so much...and then the glass slips, falls on the floor with a sickening crack as it shatters. He swallows down his fear as his father turns to look at him, his wrist now a visible mess dripping metallic liquid onto the floor.

He can see it, even through all the cuts and the blood. The name etched on his father's wrist is red, raw, clearly a recent development.

It's his name.

'Four' is written on his father's wrist.

He shakes for a moment, just staring and feeling the heat from his father's gaze. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, breaking the tension. His father looks away, dropping the bloodied knife in the sink before he rubbed at his wrist, at the name etched into, at his son's name.

The son he had named after a number.

"I'll clean it up," he moves to grab the broom that was leaning against a wall before starting to put all the glass into a single pile. His face felt red, hot, he's embarrassed but he doesn't know if it's from dropping the glass or seeing his name on his father's wrist.

It's disturbing.

It shouldn't be allowed.

He doesn't feel anything, no tingles, no heat, nothing, just a feeling of unease. His heart thumping with each broom stroke.

His father stares at him.

He thinks, no he knows that his father isn't his soulmate, the name etched on his wrist is short, he can't read it but he knows that much. If he remembers correctly it was only four digits. How can he be his father's soulmate?

Fate shouldn't allow something so disgusting to be possible.

He leans down, brooming the glass into a pan.

He wonders what god cursed his father with a soul mate like this. One in which he can never have the way you're supposed to because they're family, because it's absolutely disgusting, forbidden in every way.

It makes him sick just thinking about it. Does his father's wrist tingle since he's in his presence? Does his skin feel hot? Are his thoughts running wild about what he would do if he weren't his son?

He throws a hand over his mouth, containing the rotten oatmeal that climbs up his throat. It's disgusting, so freaking disgusting that his name is written on his father's wrist. Despite everything he feels bad for his father, it seems so cruel.

He dumps the glass into the trash.

His father rubs at his wrist.

He gives a soft smile before turning around and walking out, his head hurting. He wants to cry for his father because his father won't cry for himself.

Fate is so cruel.


	3. Chapter 3

His father's wrist is bandaged and it makes him uneasy. For some odd reason he thinks his father wanted him to see it, that disgusting soul mark etched on his skin by fate.

He'd think his perfect father would want to hide it with a passion, so there's no way he actually intended to let him see it but...he didn't yell or scream. He didn't tell him off or try to convince him he saw nothing, in fact, his father hadn't said a word.

His skin crawls, he leans on his hand as he listens to his mother's lesson. It's on classical conditioning, which is a thing that makes him laugh.

It's ironic all things considered.

He listens to his mother, barely, his mind too far gone for him to focus.

————————————————————

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes while he focuses on nothing. He's too high for this, to summon ghosts or whatnot but he'd never tell his father that to his face. He likes being alive.

There are no movements, no sounds, no speaking, and definitely no dead people.

His father is watching ever so patiently.

It's cold, he wraps a hand around his chest before opening his eyes. His father is staring, hard, his gaze is enough to make his skin turn hot, the cold melts away. 

He kicks the dirt in the backyard, contemplating just acting like he sees something to get this over with. Then again his father always knows when he's faking so it'd be a bad idea. He'd get in trouble and he's not really feeling that right now, not that he's ever.

"Your uselessness is increasing at an incredibly high rate," His father mutters, his words make little fog puffs as he speaks.

He scratches at his wrist, he looks at it like it's so interesting. His father isn't wrong but it hurts so much more when he hears him say it. He wants to help, he wants to be better but he doesn't want to see dead people.

He's actually relieved to hear those words. He was worried that his father would start treating him differently or something. It would be bad if he did, if he started to be kind and...less hard-headed. It'd be so bad because he'd only be doing it because of his soul mark...because he's his soul mate.

It makes him sick.

He tries not to think about it but it just keeps popping up in his mind. The fact that his father could be feeling strange every time he's in his presence. Feeling strange in that way no father should ever feel towards their child.

"It's rather rude to stare," His father's voice has a sharp tone to it as furrows his eyebrows. 

He drops his head, allowing his knees to bend, an old trick, one that showed his father that he holds the authority.

He hadn't meant to stare at it, at that disgusting mark, the one that's probably going to give him nightmares soon or later. It's just too much to handle, the thought that his name is written right there.

He's always been taught that if you ever find your soul mate you get married, you have children, you fall into a perfectly unrivaled love.

"Sorry."

His father takes a step towards him, then another, dirt crunches underneath his polished shoes. Fingertips are placed underneath his chin before his head is drawn upward so that he's forced to look into his father's eyes.

The fingers tips are cold but it feels so warm against him.

His father removes them just as quickly as he had applied them, almost like he had been burned. He was probably overcome with a loud thumping from his heart, his mind might have seen visions of him giving his son a passionate hug, or maybe he started to feel tingly.

His own thoughts are making him uncomfortable.

How disgusting.

His father should never touch him again.

"You are useless," His father says as his eyes shine with something strange.

He nods.

"You require more in-depth training if you ever hope to have any practical use."

He nods again, agreeing, he just wants to be out of his father's presence. The faster the better.

————————————————————

"Did you know dad got his soul mark?" He asks while studying with Diego and Ben. It's silent for a while, he hears Ben's pencil going, writing.

Then Diego chuckles as he shoves his face in his book, the book vibrates with each one of Diego's breaths. Diego leans back a hand over his mouth as he laughs.

He tilts his head, confusion falling over him. 

Ben blinks, clearly perturbed by Diego.

"God that's the best and worse thing I've ever heard in my life," Diego says hitting his hands off the floor as he grins.

"Have you tried to imagine it yet? The woman on the other side of that mark? His soul mate is probably a piece of work," Diego breaks into another set of laughs.

He smiles but can't find himself getting into it, considering he knows he's the other side. He's his father's soul mate.

"The other half of dad has got to be a monster, right? Cruel, proper, unfit to love anyone other than herself. She'd be perfect for him, a queen to rule his kingdom- that’s all we need, a new tyrant to rule over us."

"You are being dramatic," Ben says, tapping his pencil as he thinks, "I bet she's sweet."

Diego scoffs and looks at him like he's crazy. "Have you been blind for the last thirteen years? When has dad ever been sweet?"

Ben shrugs.

He's silent, he knows he's been unnaturally quiet. Diego turns to him, looks at him strangely. This is the type of subject he would have loved to discuss but he just can't.

The whole thing is starting to make his head hurt.

He isn't like his father. He isn't cruel, he isn't heartless, he definitely isn't a tyrant nor is he a monster. So how? How can he be his soul mate, they are practically opposites.

Why does fate hate him?

"Are you okay?" Diego asks, his voice suddenly taking on a serious tone.

He nods, rubbing his wrist as he smiles. 

"I have a stomachache," he says and he's not entirely lying. The subject-one which he had brought up himself makes him want to barf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to be picking up soon, unfortunately not for the better.


	4. Chapter 4

The idea spread quickly and soon everyone knew their father had finally gotten a soul mark.

There were mix feelings on the matter.

He tried to ignore most of it since it made him mildly uncomfortable but he couldn't block all of it out.

"This is what he has needed for years!" Allison coos, her eyes sparkling as she speaks. "He's never experienced love before but true love? It's enough to cure even the grouchiest of people!"

He thinks she's been reading too many fairytales. True love probably doesn't work if one of the people involved wants nothing to do with the other. It's a magical thing that he has no interest in giving to his father.

"Sure," he whispers, nodding away just because he really wants the conversation to be over with.

He hasn't said a word to anyone about the name that's written so cruelly on his father's wrist. Why would he? What could they do except tell him he's possibly got the worst luck in all of history. 

It'd be even worse if they told him he was seeing things like he's crazy when he's clearly not.

"If they got married I'd be the best man," Luther butts in the conversation uninvited, throwing a hand around his shoulder and pulling him in. "I can't wait until we can see the name! Do you think he'll announce it on the news that's he finally got it?" 

Allison makes a noise as she smiles to herself. "That'd be the cutest thing ever. A bunch of girls from all over the world will come, most seeking money, but only one of them will be the right one, just a lonely girl seeking her other half! It'll be like Cinderella! Instead of trying on shoes they'll be showing off soul marks!" She makes more noises, cooing, almost fangirling as little flowers explode out of her head. She is really getting into this.

Luther smiles before patting his back as he starts to laugh.

No one comments on his silence.

There's a bang- one he knows, he's been conditioned to know. It's the sound of his father banging his cane off the wooden floors. 

He turns to the living room archway, his father stands there. A frown on his face and his hand gripping his cane heavily.

"Number Four," he says, his voice projecting- it's just below a yell.

He sits upright, looks at his father all proper like Allison and Luther do. His heart thumps, it crawls up into his ear and keeps singing.

What did he do now?

————————————————————

Every-time they went somewhere as a family for Umbrella Academy missions or interviews they took a limousine. It made them look fancier, richer, all the more like they sat on some untouchable pedestal.

Today they didn't take it, they instead took the old Rolls Royce, the one their father insisted was more of an antique then a car. He had no interest in replacing it even as newer cars came out.

It made weird noises and that paired with his father's subpar driving made the experience pure hell. He tried not to focus on that and instead he tries to focus on the destination.

It's only him and his father.

The air is awkward almost tense as he plays with the end of his shirt. He can't help but be uncomfortable by being in a small, confined space with his father. 

He knows the only reason his father would be taking him somewhere personally is for personal training. He should be a nervous wreck, unable to function or even breathe properly but he isn't. He's so uncomfortable from being just mere inches away from his father that he can't get his nerves to unravel.

He looks out the window, he does his very best to be focused on every tree that passes but still, his mind wanders to his father.

————————————————————

"Places like this make me want to run away," he says, more to himself than his father. He's just thinking out loud.

"Oh?" His father said almost with a hum in his voice.

They walk through a graveyard and all it takes is that realization to know what his father is thinking. His father is thinking about locking him up in the Mausoleum again. He's scared, his nerves finally unraveling now. He can't help the way he trembles.

"Yeah," he stutters, his voice now taking on a more hoarse tone. "It's the trees," he gestures to the trees that line the graveyard, "there are so many that it seems like if I ran into them I'd never find the other side. I'd be free..."

His father doesn't say anything, he doesn't ask what he'd be escaping from because he has to know already. It's been this way for a while, the need to run, be free.

The graves they passed are old, dusty, they look uncared for. It seems like no one ever visits them, which is sad-they have been forgotten...and that breeds mean unhinged sprits.

They follow a dirt pathway through the graveyard, he barely keeps up with his father. His legs are shaking so much, turning to pure jelly underneath him and he hates it. He is afraid, deathly terrified of where they are going.

His father hasn't said another word, which is just as unsettling although it's normal. He only talks when he has something cruel and heartless to say.

He's waiting for him to say that this is a punishment for being so useless, for being a junkie, for being his soulmate.

He grinds his teeth as the building comes into view- the Mausoleum. It's larger then he remembers, absolutely giant, it looms over him. Spider webs crawl across the pillars and the inside is pitch black- even though there's a door he knows this.

"It's getting cold..." he whispers, he's nervous, he always talks too much when he's nervous.

His father says nothing.

"I'm sorry," his voice trembles so much it barely leaves his lips.

His father opens the Mausoleum door with ease.

"Please, I'm so sorry!" He says, it's loud, he presses his hands against his chest as tears prick his eyes.

The door creaks open, his father gestures for him to go inside.

"I'll do better! I'll do anything...please don't make me go in there!" He begs, pleads with his best puppy eyes as tears start to roll down his cheeks.

His father glares at him, one of those glares that say 'if you don't shut up your punishment will be twice as bad.' His father had the ability to say all that with a glare.

He shuts up and walks inside. 

Immediately noticing that a orange light is glowing over the room-from a few different candles that are placed in metal candle holders along the walls. The thing that really gets him though is the white, clearly new mattress that sits on the ground. It stares at him and he stares back.

Just how long is his father going to keep him in here? Why would he need things like this? 

The tears cool against his cheeks, making him realize how hot his face really is. He's probably red-faced and puffy-eyed now but he doesn't care.

He's terrified of being here.

Even if he's high now it won't last forever.

He turns to his father, his lips trembling and his eyes wide. "I'll listen, I'll be good, I'll do everything you ask! Please just let me out," he begs so hard but his father's face still holds a look of indifference.

He takes a deep breath.

His father takes a step inside and shuts the door behind him, cutting off the night sky and only allowing the candles to light the space around them.

He takes a step back, his skin radiating heat, his eyes producing little clear pearls, and his stomach churning oatmeal around and around again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be dark so im apologizing in advance~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> |Heavy Non-Con Ahead|
> 
> I literally wanted to die while writing this so now I’m going to go take a nice warm bath.

His father is going to kill him, isn't he? That's why he brought him here, so he could wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze, draining him of all life...If he isn't living he's no longer a problem.

He clenches his hands into fists at his side, his nails making indents into his soft skin. "Sorry," he whispers again but he doubts his father even heard it.

He's too young to die but he thinks for a moment that it'd be fitting to die at his father's hands.

His father takes a step towards him, he takes one back. His heart is pounding, thumping so loudly as he imagines his father killing him, getting rid of the nuisance he is and then lying his corpse on the mattress only to go home and tell his siblings that he ran away or there was an accident.

It scares him...how easily his siblings would believe that.

He takes another step back only for his back to hit a cold wall, he presses his hands against it as his breaths become uneven.

His father takes another step towards him, his eyes are focused on him, hiding small flames within them.

He closes his eyes, clenches them shut as his knees give out and he falls in a pile of dust against the wall. He brings his knees up to his chest and pushes his head into them while wrapping a hand around his ears.

"I'm sorry!" He says, again and again, although he doesn't know if that helps him or hurts him. He's panicking, he doesn't have a choice, nobody is here to help him.

His father's footsteps are so loud, each step drives more fear into his heart. He's getting closer and closer without saying a word. Why isn't he saying anything? It's so much, he just wants to know what he's being punished for so he can properly apologize for it.

It's only when his father's footsteps stop right in front of him that he looks, just peeks. His father has kneeled down and is staring at him, studying him and despite all of his whining, he doesn't look that displeased with him.

His father reaches a hand out, it lands on his hands that wrap around himself. He taps on them, telling him to drop them without words, which he does without a question. 

He doesn't want to die.

He just wants to go home.

His thoughts shift, he doesn't know why but they do but as he stares at his father who is staring at him he's suddenly self-conscious, suddenly he's afraid of being touched.

He's afraid his father is going to make him regret being his soul mate, even though he had nothing to do with it.

A hand is placed on his cheek, it is cold because he's hot from being so worked up. His father's thumb is rubbing against his skin, sometimes touching the wet residue his tears left on his cheek.

"You are dramatic," his father says, stopping the rubbing to instead trail his hand down his throat. He swallows as his father's gaze feels even more scrutinizing. "What do you think I brought you here for?" 

He doesn't speak.

The hand trails to his collar, which his father tugs on, making it messy before he continues to trail down his chest. The candle flames above him flicker an orange glow onto his father's features making him look as if he's smiling a small eerie smile.

"I don't know," he whispers, feeling the iciness of his father's fingertips even through his uniform. It's so icy that his father feels as if he could be dead.

He shivers, the hand keeps trailing down and all he can think is that his father is going to touch him down there. Where he's not supposed to touch himself, although he has- and he has received many punishments for.

His father wouldn't right? Not even if his wrist is hot, and his insides are begging him to touch his son...he wouldn't. It'd go against his honor code, as a man, as a 'hero.' As his father, he'd never ever do something so disgusting.

But he does.

He flinches when his father's hand cups his penis, even through the clothes he can feel how much he's being tainted. He immediately clenches his legs together, it's an automatic response- all it really accomplishes is locking his father's hand against him.

He flinches again, realizing this.

"You are being unreasonable.”

He looks at his father like he's crazy because he is. He isn't really listening to that stupid mark right? This is a joke, a cruel joke. Any minute his father is going to start laughing a terrible laugh and tell him he's so stupid for falling for this joke.

He stops clenching his legs up, hoping his father would remove his hand...and he does. 

His father pulls his hand back, pushes up his sleeve a little, and unwraps the bandages, slowly. The white pure bandages become one with the floor as the soul mark is revealed. The 'Four' is now red, pulsating, almost seeming alive on his father's wrist.

It's scary.

It's so scary because his father is listening to that mark.

"Up."

He's on his feet within a fraction of a second.

"On the mattress."

He sits on the mattress, tears already pooling in his eyes again. He's in so much trouble and he feels so gross just from his father's touch. It's as if his father had left a toxic trail down his body that he's going to need a deep hour long bath to clean.

"I'll do so much better," he whispers, pressing a hand over his penis as if trying to protect it. His father isn't allowed to touch him there.

"You've already made this worse," his father said, kneeling beside him on the mattress, pressing a hand against the hand he's using to protect himself. The mark on his father's wrist pulses again.

"You've been very disgraceful," his father scolds as he begins to grasp the hand and pull it away from his manhood. "You are trying to deny fate..."

It hurts.

Hurts in ways it shouldn't hurt.

"This is something you can't escape by crying or looking away. Don't you see how much this is meant to be?" His father says, setting his hand beside him before grasping his now non-protected manhood.

It feels gross.

"You're wrong," he whispers as his father's hand sits there, his wrist pulses and his palm cold.

He raises a hand and presses it against his father's chest, half of him wants to push, to fight, but the other half of him knows he'd doom himself to real torture. He's stuck here, in this dimly lit space that is crawling with the smell of death.

"Stop," he whispers but his father doesn't even acknowledge it as he starts to rub him.

"This is wrong," his penis starts to feel tingly, a bad tingly because it makes him feel as if he's about to throw up. He is so scared, horrified and disgusted but it isn't listening to him.

It shouldn't be responding to this.

"No..."

His father is silent.

"Please stop..."

His voice cracks as his father moves his hand to play with his zipper, drawing it down before he unbuttons his pants. His stomach churns as a hand rubs his penis through his boxers.

He's about to throw up.

He's denying fate.

His father is meant to do this, fate tells him he should, that this is okay. Fate is cruel. 

Fate tells him he's allowed to hate this because the name on his wrist isn't his father's.

He presses his hand harder on his father's chest while simultaneously pushing one onto his mouth. He tells himself that he's doing this to prevent himself from throwing up and not to muffle the repulsing sounds of pleasure that leave him.

It's so disgusting.

"Please stop it..."

"You are being very disobedient," his father said, grabbing his penis- hard. He yelps as he tries to jump backward, only making it hurt so much more. "You are making this harder than it has to be. I'm being very patient with you and I don't appreciate your blabbering."

"Sorry," he whispers before his father returns to his rubbing.

"Fate is inescapable."

Fate is responsible for this. He's trying to run away from fate, trying to tell it that it's wrong but it's not. It's just a cruel truth.

He says nothing as his father sticks a hand in his boxers. He shuts his eyes, tries to imagine the man on the other side of his mark, the one that's meant for him. It helps, a little bit, but he can't help but feel layers of dirt accumulate on his skin.

A warmth settles in his stomach, a familiar one. He knows what's going to happen if his father keeps touching him like this and he's revolted at his own body's actions. He knows he's not supposed to feel this way but he is, his father is corrupting him with his touch.

The touch fate has instructed him to do.

His legs twitch, his grip on his father suit increases, he pulls on it a little- enjoying the nice ripping sound that follows. It is sick, to be touched like this, but the warmth almost overflows out of his stomach. His penis pulses in his father's hand as he feels that sensation he knows is coming soon.

It happens, he presses his hand against his mouth harder to stifle his noises of pleasure as he coats his father's hand in his...cum.

It feels good for a moment until it comes crashing down on him that it really happened. His stomach is almost convulsing, it's all too much. It's wrong, disgusting, and he's so dirty now.

His father pulls his hand away to look at his palm, the one that's covered in his pearly substance. His father looks at it without any emotion.

He looks at as if it's the most appalling thing he's ever seen. It makes his skin itch just looking at it. He needs to pour boiling hot water on him to melt away his filth.

If it's even possible to get rid of this much filth.

His father wipes his hand off on the mattress. "Grab a handful of dirt," his father instructed him, gesturing to the dust and dirt that layered the mausoleum floors. 

He does as instructed, the dirt and grime could never make him feel as filthy as his father has. 

"Rub it into the mattress."

He trembles as he rubs handfuls of dirt into the mattress...making it look as if it had been here a while. Tears are running down his face, he's not sure when they started but he knows they are there now.

"Pull yourself together- you look as if you were raped."

He cries even harder as he pats the mattress with dirt, his tears making little muddy piles.

"Sorry," he stutters as hard sobs begin to overtake him.

His father doesn't comment, all he does is reach inside of his coat pocket and pull out a little notebook. He proceeds to write inside of it while listening to his broken sobs.

He is filthy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaus is a sad confused cinnamon roll :,(

His father doesn't write for long until he decides that it's time to leave. They've done all they've needed to do and there's no point in soaking in the scent of death any more than necessary.

His father doesn't make him stay in the mausoleum but somehow he finds himself wishing his father would have left him there. He can't help but think that his father had somehow figured that it'd be better for him if he kept all his traumas in one place.

That's funny.

Really funny isn't it?

He rubs at his eyes, they are heavy, his dirty hands leave streaks down his cheeks but he doesn't care. He already feels dirty, he knows he looks just as dirty.

He looks like he's been...raped.

He isn't sure whether what his father said was ironic or not. Maybe it's true, maybe his father is right. He could have looked like that but isn't he allowed to? Isn't he supposed to be torn up inside? Isn't he supposed to feel disgusted? Isn't he allowed to be angry at his father?

Isn't he allowed to hate fate?

...

It's probably stupid for him to do so. Fate isn't a thing humans control, they only pretend they have a handle on how it works but they don't. It's out of his control, it's out of his father's control. He highly doubts his father had intended to do such things before he got that stupid soul mark.

He shivers, following his father through the night.

The graveyard looks as if any minutes a dead man might materialize right in front of him. He tries his best to calm his breathing and keep himself from crying again because his eyes are too puffy already. Each time he closes his eyes he's close to sleeping.

If he's lucky maybe he can forget.

_Pull yourself together- you look as if you were raped._

He bites his fingertips, feeling the crackling of his nails crying. He keeps doing that while he barely keeps up with his father but he tries to.

He really doesn't want to be alone here.

————————————————————

One minute it's dark and he's in the car staring at passing trees, in the next minute he's looking at his home while the sun is rising. He slept, which is usually high discouraged but today he gets that small privilege.

It doesn't feel like one.

His father doesn't turn off the car but he looks over at him.

"Stay here."

He nods, closing his eyes again, he is exhausted.

When he opens his eyes again his father is driving, his eyes focused on the road while silence surrounds them. It takes him a while to realize that his siblings are now here, piled in the back seat.

He blinks at them, all of them except Vanya- who is never invited to Umbrella Academy stuff unless she was helping with the behind the scenes. He stifles a yawn as he turns back to look at the road.

Luther usually sits upfront. So they all look uncomfortable back there.

He feels filthy and he is afraid of spreading it to them. He wonders if they can see it just by looking at him...

After all, he looked like he had been raped just a little bit ago.

And he wasn't, that's crazy, what happened was all just a small punishment. His father was just using him to experiment on, he always is.

He thinks for a moment that it’s so easily for him to justify his father forcing himself on him, that it’s so much easier for him to accept it because his father has an excuse and a decent one at that. Fate is his excuse and how is he supposed to argue with that?

He doesn’t know.

————————————————————

His father is holding out a paintbrush to him, a small on his face that reflects on to his own lips. A woman is there, holding a camera, and it takes her a minute to find the right angle.

There's a flash and this moment is now imposed on history forever. Soon it'll be in the newspaper, and on the TVs. Everyone will know of this graveyard and this Mausoleum that Reginald Hargreeves decided to clean up out of the kindness of his heart.

His smile fades, Luther glares lightly at him, still pouting that their father didn't pick him to feature in this headlining picture.

————————————————————

Luther carries out the now used mattress, the manufactured dirt spots reflect sunlight.

He feels bad that Luther has to touch something so disgusting.

His father is talking to an interviewer, allowing his children to get their hands dirty while he soaks up all the praise, He talks about homeless people who had taken refuge in the Mausoleum.

He is dusting off dirt from gravestones with his brothers- Ben and Diego. It's time consuming, gross, and awkward.

He feels dirty beside them, touched, and almost toxic. His body has betrayed him, he's repulsive to himself. His father has done this to him.

No, Fate did this to him and this makes him guilty.

His father's words and the mere thought of fate burrows into his mind, telling him how disgusting he is for not accepting him as his soul mate. He's supposed to love his father, he's supposed to like all those things his father did but he doesn't, not at all.

He just feels broken, like some gear in his mind just isn't turning right.

He wipes a cobweb off of a gravestone, a bug crawls on his hand. "Ew!" He yelps as he flings it off his hand.

"You are such a sissy!" Diego laughs as he wipes off a separate headstone.

Allison yells something but she's far away, painting a nice new white coat of paint onto the mausoleum walls with Five. He thinks though that she's telling Diego to be nice to him.

He smiles, it's nice to have such good siblings. 

A thought bites at his brain, a subtle thought, that maybe his father planned this. He had made him so dirty, traumatized him here so that while he’s cleaning it up he can clean up the filth on his body. He laughs to himself, just by cleaning up the graveyard he isn’t going to suddenly be clean.

————————————————————

They go out to a small donut shop for a 'reward.' It doesn't really feel like one, all it really does is allow the paparazzi to take pictures of them being a family.

He nibbles on his chocolate-filled donut and although it's one of the most delicious things he's eaten in a long time he just doesn't have an appetite now. Each time his skin itches or he moves the wrong way he remembers everything he doesn't want to remember.

His father's hand rubbing him.

The noises that tumbled out of his lips.

The sickening feeling that sunk in his stomach when he realized how disgusting he is.

His father reads a newspaper, his wrist isn't bandaged but his suit's long sleeves prevent anyone from seeing the name. His siblings stare at it anyway, tilting their heads and waiting for the moment any little piece of it is revealed.

When their father looks at them they all look away and act like they weren't staring. He goes back to reading the newspaper and the cycle continues.

He tries to ignore them.

"God!" Five exclaims, banging his hands off the table. "This is infuriating! Why can’t you just show us?"

Their father folds up the newspaper and sits it aside. He stirs his tea without acknowledging Five's words.

"The silent treatment? You know what? I bet you're lying, you don't really have a soul mark!" Five glares at him while he speaks, "nobody could ever love someone as heartless as you are and you know it!"

Luther kicks Five's foot, he yelps before he receives a quiet shut up from Allison.

Their father stirs his tea, looking into as if it held all the answers before looking up with a slight frown. "You've mistranslation your own feelings into the feelings of others." He says, humming along as he just seems amused by Five. "I once had a lover...”

Five groans, pressing his head against his palm as he narrows his eyes at his father, "please do not tell that story again, it proves nothing."

His father doesn't tell that story, he isn’t sure he really ever has...and after a while of silence, he breaks it.

"There is no story to tell," he stirs his tea even though he was never planning on drinking it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll clean up any typos later, until then my apologies.


	7. Chapter 7

"How was training?" Ben asks, his eyes not even leaving his book. 

"Same old same old," he mumbles, pressing his head on his hand as he scribbles on the side of his worksheet. There are questions on it, asking about the difference between a response and stimuli. He doesn't know, he hasn't been paying attention nor does he care right now.

Not when his skin feels slimy.

He draws a little him and his father, then he sneaks his mother in there. He draws a happy little family, but they aren't. 

His family has been shattered now.

He scribbles out the drawing.

————————————————————

They train, it's normal, he's not.

Diego pushes him down, pushes a knife to his throat and then it's over. A bell is rung, Vanya stands on the sidelines writing down the victor and life goes on. His brother helps him up after removing the knife from his neck.

Allison is his next opponent.

When the bell rings and Allison gives him a little push he falls backward onto the hard ground of the backyard, uninterested in putting up a fight. She leans down and whispers in his ear anyway.

"I heard a rumor you won't put up a fight."

He laid still, looking up at the sky, feeling the dirt against his back and the sun on his skin.

The bell rings.

Allison gets up and moves to spar with Ben.

————————————————————

He isn't sure what Five is upset about, all things considered, scrubbing the floors isn't a big punishment for how loud he raised his voice towards their father. Despite his opinion his brother still mumbles underneath his breath, rubbing a wet rag on the grand hall floor a few times before rewetting it in a bucket.

"Shut up."

He tilts his head before a smile crawls across his lips. "I wasn't talking," he says and a glare is shot his way.

"I could hear you thinking from here and I'm not in the mood."

"This is entirely your fault."

"I only said what everyone else was thinking."

"Maybe..."

He shrugs before walking off, up the stairs with all intentions of finally getting a bath. It isn't like he hasn't been wanting to since it happened but his father insists on more training and less free time.

He really needs a bath though, just a quick one will do. He'll soak in boiling hot water and let it melt away fate's hold on him.

The bathroom is unoccupied.

He locks the door when he steps inside.

He looks in the mirror at the dirt that streaks down his face and wonders what he looks like. He drops the thought, he's too uncomfortable and unnerved for all that.

He starts the bathwater, strips, and gets in the tub. He enjoys the hot water that is slowly rising around him. It's nice, he closes his eyes, he lets it wash away his filth.

He gets bad thoughts, they almost naw at him. What if his father makes him dirty again? What if his father decides he wants more than a passing touch? What if his father really wants him to be his...lover?

He digs his nails into his thighs, cursing his thoughts and turning them off. He's has been doing fine, too fine to break down over some what if's.

His father has to be satisfied now, right?

————————————————————

He's wrong of course, isn't he always?

It's the way his father looks at him, that passing glance they shared. It wasn't normal. It was heated, prolonged, deep, it was so many things it shouldn’t have been. It tells him more than he wants to know and that makes him uncomfortable.

He's used to getting glares or that one look his father gave him when he did or suggested something-the one that just screamed 'are you a fucking idiot?' Which most of the time was well justified but he can't say it never hurt.

This look though makes him feel almost like his father is eating him up.

He doesn't say anything, just letting his father's gaze soak into his skin. It's disgusting, he thinks as he takes a step back.

His father shuts his book before standing.

He takes another step back, feeling heat crawl across his skin. He was looking for Ben...he didn't mean to intrude on his father's personal time.

His father is still silent, walking over to a bookshelf beside him before pushing the book in gently.

He takes a deep breath before turning around. He should go, leave, put distance between them otherwise he will never forget what his father did to him. It was so horrible, it is still so horrible. Each time he remembers it, it's like it's happening all over again.

His memory is clear, precise, so dirty.

A pressure starts on his shoulder, stopping him from running away like he wants to. His father's hand seems so heavy although, in reality, it doesn't have much pressure behind it at all.

"Four."

He swallows for a moment, just trying to calm his heart. Nothing is going to happen, they're at home, they're out in the open, his father wouldn't touch him here.

"You-" his father leans in a hair, whispering in his ear like his words are only meant for him “-disgust me," his father's voice is full of malice making his words drive deeply into his already sensitive heart.

It's painful, his heart hurts, it's so horrible to be told that, yet...it's relieving but also confusing. It's too many things, it leaves him thinking, vulnerable.

His father presses his fingertip on his lips before dragging, his stomach drops. His father is cold yet soft, his fingers rubbing for a moment before he leans in and takes his official first kiss.

It's too unnatural.

His father pulls away, his nose scrunched up as he looks at him with disgust.

He wipes his mouth off, feeling the same amount of disgust.

"Why..." he whispers but he knows better than anyone he'd never get an answer. He's left to decide that for himself. Is it because his father likes him...like that? Is it the burning desire on his wrist? Is it just because he can?

"It's not your place to ask," his father says, his lips drawn down in a frown.

He nods, agreeing, accepting, before slowly turning away-giving his father plenty of time to stop him if it didn't want him to.

His father lets him go.


	8. Chapter 8

He leans back against the cardboard boxes stacked half hazardously in the attic. The corners dig into his back but he just takes a drag of his cigarette, letting the awful taste make him gag.

It is an acquired taste, one he's sure he'll come to love soon enough.

"I bet dad's soul mate has an old lady name," Diego says, raising his hand to wave away the smoke that migrated in front of him. "Ya know? Like...Bertha."

"Ew," Luther says, scoffing as he shakes his head. "How about Mabel?"

"That sounds even worse," Diego nudges shoulders with Luther.

Luther rolls his eyes.

He looks up at the ceiling, just watching the smoke travel up and away, it's quite relaxing to look at. He takes another puff before putting the cigarette out against the floor. He would be in big trouble if he set a fire alarm off-again.

"How about Four?" He said, joining in the conversation, his words just tumble out before he can stop himself.

Allison stops smiling, her finger that had curled a hair around stills as she turns and furrows her eyebrows at him. 

The room falls silent, his siblings all looking at him like...he's-

"That is disgusting!" Diego almost stutters as his face pales. "That's too far, even for you! Don't put your sick fantasies in my mind!"

He laughs, laughs like he's really joking because otherwise his siblings might really think he's some freak...they would never look at him the same if he didn't laugh this off.

"I'm joking...geez," he pushes a hand against the floor and walks down the attic steps, waving a hand at them as he leaves. "I'll go hang out with Vanya," he said, looking back and sticking his tongue out.

They all looked at him like there's something wrong with him. He gets a sudden urge to explain to them, to tell them everything but he doesn't, he can't. He can't even stomach the thought himself let alone try to explain it.

He was telling the truth.

His name is etched on his father's wrist.

He doesn't want it to be there.

————————————————————

He doesn't actually go hang out with Vanya, mainly because she looked so focused on the workbook she's been reading. She's determined to apply to some talent competition, one in which their father had said she could only join if she proved she was serious.

Hence the bags underneath her eyes and the pale skin.

He doesn't interrupt her.

She's working so hard but in the end, their father is going to tell her she isn't good enough. He knows how this game works he's played it before.

He changes his direction and throws his hands up, stretching as he contemplates downing a pill or two and calling it a day. He chooses not to do that, mainly because his father is walking up the hallway and would definitely beat him if he saw him taking them.

So he'll wait until he leaves.

His father walks like he's on a mission or really like there's an invisible cape tied on his back-he always seems so invincible, like nothing could ever touch him.

It must be a nice feeling, having the world dance in the palm of your hand like that. He'd probably go crazy if he had that much power.

"Four!" 

He straightens his back as his father's attention settles on him. "I was just looking for you," he said, adjusting his monocle while he stares directly into his soul. It's enough to feel violated, that's how it always is when his father wears that-which he basically did twenty-four seven.

He almost blushes, it's just too scrutinizing all things considered.

"Come along Four," His father says, turning and walking away. He follows behind, slowly, knowing two things one- his father didn't take kindly to his children taking the lead and two if his father decided to suddenly kiss him or something he'd have time to react.

So he stays three steps behind.

His father doesn't add on anything else, no reason, no explanation, nothing. He's just following the lion back to his den and hoping he isn't eaten up...it's all he can do really. He was always taught to accept punishments and to never fight them.

He's a good child, stupid, silly, maybe too out of the loop but he's always tried to be better.

————————————————————

His father takes him to his lab, which is eerie. It always has been.

His father hands him an empty test tube and tells him to spit, it takes him a moment to do so- because the atmosphere has dried up his mouth, he's nervous. He's in the lion's den now. 

He spits in the tube and his father seals it before placing it on a rack next to other tubes. He writes something down on a clipboard.

"Sit," his father instructed, gesturing to a chair- one which had straps that he can only imagine his father tying him down with. He tells himself he's overreacting before he sits.

He isn't overreacting at all.

His father puts down the clipboard before walking over to him. He starts to strap him in, first his left arm than his right, then he does his feet- left to right and all he can think is that this is it.

He's going to die here.

"Is this going to hurt?" His question is but a mere whisper as he speaks. 

"No," his father says, pulling a lever on the chair's side, the chair leans back and for a moment it feels as if he's just going to fall straight through the floor. His heart jumps, his stomach drops, and then the chair stops leaning just before his head cracks off the floor.

His father pushes up the back, making it so he isn't leaning straight into the floor. He'd thank him if this didn't seem like the start to a torture session Ben would read about in some horror book.

His father takes off his suit's coat which reveals a white undershirt. Yup, this is it, this is how he dies.

His father sits it aside before writing something else down.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, unsure of what he's apologizing for but he can't just accept that he's about to have something bad happen to him.

"For?"

"I..." 

His father starts to walk over to him, pushing his sleeves up as his eyes glaze over with indifference. His wrist is visible, his name is right there, it's right there but it isn't calling to him. 

It's repulsing him.

It sends signals to him, fight and flight ones. All of a sudden he pulls on his hands, kicks his feet, it does nothing. He stops, grinding his teeth, hating himself for letting his father do this to him.

Why is he so stupid?

His father changes course at the last minute, turning to a cabinet. He opens it and rummages inside before pulling out a shot, a needle, there's a pinkish liquid inside.

"No," he mumbles, pulling on his hands again.

His father shuts the cabinet before walking over to him, flicking the end of the needle as he grows closer. 

"Please don't," he says, half convinced that it contains cyanide.

"You have been rather ridiculous lately," His father says as he holds his left wrist flat before embedding the needle in his soft skin, injecting the pink fluid in his veins.

It burns, immediately he feels as if his father had just set him on fire. He starts to pant, he can't help it, he's never had drugs that acted so fast before.

The fluid travels through all of his body, leaving flames in its wake. He's starting the flush red, it's hot, so hot that all he wants to do is get undressed. 

If he wasn’t panting right now he’s sure he would have died of a heatstroke. 

He's scared.

His father takes notes on his clipboard.

He starts to wiggle, the warmth pools in his stomach and he starts to feel a need bubbling up inside. It's strange, he isn't sure what's going on but his body does.

He starts to feel his penis tingle, it’s hardening and with each passing moment it’s radiating more and more pain. He needs to touch it, to soothe the burning pain, it feels as if an flame from a lighter is being dragged on his sensitive skin.

He presses his legs together as his stomach cramps and a ping of painful pleasure shoots through him.

It all hurts.

He's so...horrified.

His father is still writing, watching, observing him like he's nothing but a science experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad things are coming :(


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Light Non/Con]
> 
> There was going to be more sad things but I wanted to focus on Reggie being a manipulative dick.

He doesn't really think he's going to die but he wishes he would because it's much more preferable to whatever his father is planning. He's going to be subjected to a lifetime of drowning in flith.

He stares, half-lidded, waiting for his father to stop writing, to stop looking at him like he’s a guinea pig. It's a painful pleasure coursing through his body, he actually finds himself thinking that under different circumstances he probably would have enjoyed it. 

Now though, it's just too disturbing.

"I've had to put a great deal of thought into this," His father says, finally sitting the clipboard aside after what felt like years. "With us, with this delicate situation that has presented itself."

He is struggling to listen, his father's voice keeps going in and out of focus.

"It's a curse, an infection, one earth seems to give out freely like its candy," His father takes a step towards him, looking at his wrist as he starts to frown. "At least now-" his father says, sliding his fingertip around his waist, leaving icy relief with each touch- "you can finally be useful."

His stomach cramps again, he tries to lean in on himself but it doesn't work when he's strapped down. He pants more heavily, just feeling pain and...guilt. Guilt that he wasn't good enough, that he wasn't useful...he had always been a letdown.

"I have no use for this mark nor do I care about its desires," he says, pushing a hand underneath his shirt to circle his stomach. There is a small eerie smile beginning to form on his father's lips.

The hand provides relief, ice-cold relief.

"You are a disgusting piece of filth unfit to the walk the halls of my house," His father says, turning his rubbing into pinching. He whimpers as he clenches his eyes, piercing red pain flashing through him. "Why did you let me touch you? Why didn't you fight back? Have you always desired to have my hands on you or was the mere fact that I am a man?"

He can't even be in pain because the breaking of his heart overrides all that. He just looks at his father, his eyes watering as he tries to defend himself.

"No..."

"But oh, you let me kiss you didn't you?" 

He shakes his head, lying to his father, lying to himself. He can't, this is too much, tears roll down his cheek. He is dirty.

"I've been rather kind about your unsightly habits, the makeup-wearing or the cross-dressing but I will not tolerate such things any longer."

His penis is on fire, hurting, pressing against his pants and all he wants to do is relieve it.

His father slides his hand to his pants and begins to unbutton. He's confused, so confused because his father had just given a speech on how disappointed he was in him and now he's...doing it again.

Why? He doesn't understand what's going on anymore. He's too worked up to really understand anything right now.

His father's hand rubs gently over his boxers, letting his cold fingertips follow the outline of his bulge. He feels so much filthier than the first time because now it feels good. It's so cold, so relieving to the fire inside that he can't help but melt into it.

His father looks towards him with unrivaled indifference but he knows that he's probably disgusted with him too. For liking guys, for being unable to contain his moan, for looking at him with half-lidded eyes while drool drips down his chin. He knows he's disgusted at his own actions but he can't control half his body.

His body is too consumed with wanting while his mind keeps telling him how wrong this is.

It feels good, disgusting but good. It's relieving, all he wants is more but with each tingle of his skin he sure it's too much. He's going to lose it, his mind, his sanity.

His father stops touching him, he removes his hand in one quick motion before crinkling his nose. He whines, rubbing his legs together, he receives a heated glare.

"What a vile being you've become," his father said, pressing a hand against his mouth to contain his disgust. "You look as if you want me to touch you," he almost grins, it's terrible, so blood-curdling.

He shakes his head, hard, biting his tongue to stifle a whine.

"Oh? I suppose then that this session is over," his father begins to unstrap him, the straps are undone with a click and all he feels is dread and pain and pleasure.

It's all too much.

He doesn't understand.

He tries to get off the chair but falls straight on his face, a sickening crack rings in his ear as blood runs down his forehead. It hurt, tears roll down his cheeks as he presses a hand against his head.

He curls up in a ball, heat consuming his stomach.

"How clumsy," His father said before turning and walking away. His father is leaving him, he...is scared.

"It hurts," he whines, pressing up on his knees, trying to get up but he can't get his body to do what he wants. "Help..." he whispers roughly, fear taking over the only sane part of his mind.

Blood drips into his mouth, tainting his tongue with the taste of rust.

"Dad..." he mumbles as his father walks out the door, not even sparing him a glance as he shuts the door. A small metal sound echos, it's the sound of a key being placed in a keyhole. 

The door has been locked.

He curls into himself, pressing his head against his knees as he cries. It hurts, he doesn't know how to make it feel better. He needs something, his body is on fire.

He rubs lightly over his boxers but his stomach immediately cramps up. His own touch provides no relief. He pants as his he accepts that this is how he's going to die...alone.

His vision fades in and out of focus as his mind stutters. Black dots sometimes consume his vision and the heat surrounding him makes him feel as if he is laying in a pool of lava. It hurts, it’s hot, he’s losing his sense of reality.


	10. Chapter 10

He can't feel anything anymore. He's half asleep, half numbed inside and out and all he can do is stare lifelessly at the floor while he sobs. 

Stupid stupid stupid.

He rolls over but the motion blinds him, it mushes his brain around. His eyes flicker off and on.

He isn't sure when he registered the feeling of being picked up, the dropping dip in his stomach or the way his hands instinctively started to flail. He kicks a little, his heart beating while the hands of this person, monster, give him relief.

He's carried somewhere but he blacks out again after his little tantrum.

He wakes up laying down, a heavyweight on his chest and a piercing sound reaching his ears. It takes him too long to get his senses back. It is way too long before he figures out what the hell that sound is.

It's sobbing.

He opens his eyes slowly, the infirmary light blinds him. He clenches his eyes together before trying again. This time it's a little better but it still sucks.

He looks down at the weight on his stomach only to see Vanya, her skin pale, her cheeks wet with tears, her body shaking as she sobs. He tries to raise his right hand to place it on her back but quickly realizes that there's Iv's attached to him.

Clear fluid is being pumped in his veins.

He drops his wrist, slowly feeling the sudden lack of heat or pain. He's just numb right now.

She looks up at his face and he stares back without emotion. She immediately calms, her sobs slow down as she starts to smile, her eyes red and puffy as she stands from her chair to press a hand on his cheek. She leans in, pressing their foreheads together as she closes her eyes.

"You are-" she starts to bawl as she speaks, pulling back to clench a hand in his shirt. "You are too reckless!"

She clenches his shirt, pulling, ripping it while she sobs against his chest. "I thought you were going to die! You're a real jerk you know? Why don't you ever think of your family before you do stupid stuff like this?"

He is silent, staring at her, the words registering but not quite sticking yet.

A hand is pressed against her shoulder before Five is pulling her into his chest. "We aren't lucky enough for him to overdose," Five whispers and Vanya slaps his chest.

"Shutup! You aren't helping," she sputters, pushing away from him as Five rolls his eyes.

A set of footsteps echo.

Ben takes the chair beside the bed, looking at him for a moment but he says nothing. He looks disappointed, so disappointed in him.

"So Klaus," Five starts and he looks towards him. "Were your pills not doing it for you anymore? Is that why you decided to steal meds from dad's lab?" Five places a hand in his pocket as he walks up to the bed, slapping a hand lightly on his chest. 

He groans.

"You could have died you idiot! Dad has way too much shit in there that you don't know the half of."

He stares at the ceiling for a while, everything just sinking in. Then he's smiling, then he's almost laughing, then he's laughing.

Glares are shot at him.

He can't help it, it's just too funny. His father sold them that lie and they believed it because...it sounds like him. It sounds like something he'd do.

His laughing turns to crying.

He throws a hand over his eyes as tears run down his face. A hand is placed on his hair, rubbing his scalp. He just cries even harder.

"I didn't-" he sobbed, his chest convulsing as he tries to speak.

"What? You didn't mean to take the wrong shit? You didn't mean to steal? You didn't mean to make us worry?" It's Diego, he's angry at him.

He shakes his head as his lips tremble.

"Father...he-" he is cut off by Luther.

"Father is what? He's angry, upset, disappointed in you. God Klaus, I thought you knew better than this."

He shuts his mouth and keeps it shut, pressing his arm even heavier against his eyes.

Nobody is even attempting to listen to him. All he wants to do is explain but nobody is giving him a chance. They are being so cruel and heartless towards him.

————————————————————

He removes his hands from his eyes when they leave. He stares at their backs, just feeling so defeated.

He's so stupid.

Stupid and reckless.

He curls over on his side, tracing a finger along the needle embedded in his veins. It's tender, raw, it hurts like a paper cut.

The door opens again, creaking, he turns his head to look. His father walks inside, his eyes trained on his form.

He stares, his heart dropping in his chest. He curls into himself, a self-defense mechanism. He isn't sure how, or why this would help him but his body isn't listening.

He shivers, holding his wrist against himself as his father's footsteps grow closer to him.

"You are fine," His father whispers, placing a hand on his head. His eyes widen as the dirt starts to become more malicious on his skin. "Give it an hour and the drug will be out of your system."

He nods, his voice hides in his throat.

"You had your siblings worked up, they spent all night sitting around your cot worked sick about you."

He clenches his eyes together, trying to ignore the words. His heart is too raw and sensitive right now.

"Poor little souls...why would you make them cry like that?"

He opens his eyes, looking up at his father, at the indifference written on his face. "Why do you hate me?" he whispers as tears prick his eyes again, guilt riddling him.

"Hate you?" His father almost hums before his hand starts to ruffle in his hair for a good moment. A motion his body associates with praise. His father's hand stops, stills as the sound of static enters his ears. "I don't hate you nor do I think you should believe something as false as that. I only want the best for you."

His father pulls on his hair, lightly, leaving a simmering burn on his scalp as he turns to leave. He winces, staring at his father's back, having so many words on his tongue but not having the power to say them.

His father makes him feel useless, broken, just too ruined.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaus just trying to act normal...

The first thing he feels when the numbness wears off is the pounding of his head. He reaches a hand up to rub at his forehead only to feel the soft embrace of bandages.

He drops his hands, closing his eyes, just trying to relax.

He waits, waits for his father to come to get him out of bed and tell him he's fine now. He waits for his siblings to come to give him more disappointing glances. He waits for his filth to become too much.

There's a knock at the door, he doesn't bother looking.

"How are you doing darling?" His mother asks, her voice annoyingly high pitched to him due to his headache. "I've brought a snack," she whispers, lowering her voice, clearly having seen the discomfort on his face.

"Thanks," he mutters, pushing himself up so that he's sitting properly.

She sets a tray in his lap, a sandwich sits on it, pastel white drips from the sides. A marshmallow sandwich. He narrows his eyes at it. It isn't something he particularly likes.

"Sorry sweetie," his mother says, patting his head softly. "We don't have much to snack on unless you'd prefer oatmeal."

He shakes his head, picking up the sandwich before taking a bite. It sticks to his teeth, making him realize how dry his mouth is. The sweet taste melts across his tongue, good but it just isn’t him.

He eats it anyway.

He wouldn’t be able to stomach the disgusting mush that is oatmeal.

His mother smiles softly, wiping away a crumb from his cheek. "You're becoming a young man," she says as she drops her hand. "I couldn't be prouder of you if I tried."

"Thanks," he mutters, taking another bite before swallowing roughly.

"I'll always need a mom no matter how old I get," he mumbles, knowing how childish that sounds...but he enjoys the way she coos, the way she embraces him, giving him love.

"You'll always be my baby," she whispers into his hair before she kisses his forehead.

————————————————————

Ben brings him another uniform to wear. He doesn't look happy to do it nor does he show any signs that he's forgiven him. He tosses the uniform in his lap before turning around.

He stands, his knees wobble but he makes enough distance to grasp his brother's hand. He holds on tight, looking down to the floor to avoid the heated glare falling over his skin.

"Don't leave," he whispers, hoarsely, his mouth and throat are dry. "I don't want to be alone."

It wasn't like he was lying. He is afraid, downright terrified of his father coming back and telling him all of his wise advice. Some part of him actually believes his father, it's hard not to when he's always been taught that his father is right no matter if he isn't.

He won't apologize for what happened, he won't get on his knees and beg for anyone's forgiveness because it wasn't his fault. His father did that, he pushed the needle in his veins.

He takes a breath, looking up at ben, giving his best puppy eyes.

"Fine," Ben says harshly before shaking off his hand. He sits on the chair, a frown on his lips, his eyes cast away.

That's fine, he can be mad all he wants as long as he stays here.

He gets dressed one piece of clothing at a time. First his shirt, then his pants, then his socks. He does it all slowly, his body feels a sensation of heaviness but he assumes it will go away soon.

"Why did you do it?" Ben whispers, biting his lip as he finally looks towards him. Giving him his attention for the first time. "We found you bleeding out on the floor! You wouldn't wake up, and god-" Ben bites his lip harder, stopping his talking.

He feels guilt.

"I didn't..." he doesn't know how he's supposed to word this. "I didn't want it, father...forced it on to me..."

Ben stares, his eyes narrowing as if he doesn't believe him.

"For once I'm being serious," he says, raising a hand to touch Ben.

His brother stands, takes a few steps back and glares. "You are terrible you know that? Why can't you just say sorry? Is it that hard? Why do you have to make up stupid stories?" Ben takes another step back, clenching his fist together, digging his nails into his palm.

"It's because you think I'm naive right? That's why you're selling me a sob story.” Ben glare hard before turning around, “You are a asshole,” Ben mutters as he leaves, his body just radiating anger.

He doesn't go after him, he knows his normal behavior led to this misunderstanding. He...was always cruel to Ben, dragging him into trouble or making him believe something that wasn't true. He used to do that so much when he was little, when he didn't realize that it hurt.

Luther taught him to do that, Allison taught him to do that, he did it because he thought it was funny. He still does, a deeper part of him still thinks it's something he should do.

He doesn't listen to that part anymore.

Footsteps are growing closer to the door, for a moment he smiles, tries to look... inviting, he thinks Ben is coming back. 

It isn't Ben, it's his father.

He drops the smile.

————————————————————

"I'm running away!" He said, balling up his hand into a fist as he glows with as much confidence he can manage.

"Please do tell, how will you accomplish a feat such as that?" His father says, writing on a clipboard. He sounds amused, always too amused with his childish antics.

He crosses his arms across his chest, rubbing his sides. Feeling self-conscious, too self-conscious. He can't help it, he's been taught that he shouldn't show weakness...that means completely ignoring the training session, the fact that a drug was forced into his system.

He's required to ignore it, not question it, only take it at face value. He wants to be scared, he wants to let his fear consume him but he knows that isn't an option.

"Ill...leave through Five's window, then I'll-"

"Bring about your own homelessness. Sounds like a flawless plan, do tell more," his father looks up from his clipboard for a moment before opening up a drawer and putting it inside.

"Never mind," he huffs, turning away, his heart beating in his ears. It's so hard to act like everything is normal when everything is wrong.

His father keeps giving him mixed signals.

"Stand," his father says and he does, almost feeling normal. His father taps his hand, his fingers twitch. "You seem to be in working condition," he says, adjusting his monocle, the name on his wrist is visible when his sleeve falls down.

He stares at it, just wondering why it's still there if anything. Does his father have some hope that he'll see it and decide that he's fine with...a deeper relationship? His father can't be serious, he isn't, he has to know that isn't how this works.

His father does know, doesn't he? Isn't that what he said in that lecture?

He receives a tap on the head, nothing hard but it burned so much from the spot that he hit, the area that is no doubt now black and blue. "Ow?" He says, clenching his eyes as the room spins around him.

"How many times must I tell you not to stare?"

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking away.

"You aren't sorry," His father rubs a finger across the mark on his wrist, the one that is still surrounded by cuts, self-made ones. "What is it? What is eating you up?" 

His father sounds like he's caring but he isn't, not in any real sense. This is not a question, it is a demand for an explanation. "I..." he stares at it, just trying to figure it out. "Why didn't you just...get rid of it?"

His father huffs, dropping his wrist as he walks out of the room, a simple hand gesture tells him to follow. He does, three steps behind, unwilling to fall into any more traps. He has to be on his toes, he needs to...have a little bit of self-preservation...even if it'll be easily shattered.

Next time he'll fight.

Next time he'll tell his father no.

Next time, god now he's thinking about next time. There shouldn't be a next time, there shouldn't be what-ifs. This situation shouldn't be real but it is. It's cruel to him, it's cruel to his father on some level although he has to say he feels no more sympathy for him.

Not after everything he's done.

Not after he touched him.

Not after he...said all those things. He didn't realized his father felt so strongly about his habit of wearing makeup or wearing Allison's skirts. He likes those things, he likes them and that's all that matters. It's absolutely heartbreaking to be told that they are unsightly.

...

He needs someone to talk to, someone to tell him he's going to be alright, someone to tell him he's not crazy. Somebody, anybody has to agree that this situation is fucked up.

"Don't you think I tried that?"

He flinches, it was the way that phrase sounded, like it was just so venom-filled. It sounded like his father was saying 'Are you a fucking idiot,' only with the tone of his voice.

"As long as you're close to me...it rebrands itself into my skin each time I attempt to remove it.

It just clicks, that little light bulbs go off in his head. He's heard of that before, of soul marks being...resilient. He hasn't thought about it much, in fact, he had thought it was more myth than truth.

It provides so much relief though, that just means the name on his wrist isn't really his father's. If it was, he would have been rebranded by fate.

He is relieved.

That only leaves a sense of growing dread and confusion. It's getting harder and harder to act like everything is fine. His father's mere presence is giving him flashbacks and no matter how hard he tries he still feels guilt.

He knows deep down that it's misplaced but it won't go away. It's guilt for himself, that he is useless, that he is a worthless, that he is everything his father doesn't want from him. Not to mention he’s a terrible person in his siblings's eyes right now.

But...he needs help...doesn't he? Just a hand to hold, a ear to listen to his problem, he just needs somebody to be his rock. 

His siblings will be hard to talk to about anything when they're so upset with him. He hopes Ben calms down, he hopes ben might start to consider...that maybe...just maybe he's telling the truth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little time skip in this chapter~
> 
> I’m planning on there being a big one eventually but that’s neither here nor there.

He keeps getting heat flashes, sweat rolls down his skin, his breathing picks up, and he just wants to hump a pillow. Which isn't the weirdest thought he's had, for sure, but he knows this isn't natural.

He's afraid of this, of the sudden vulnerability that comes along with his sudden heat flashes.

The fact that his knees go weak, his mind starts to swirl and then everything starts to smell so good. His pillows, his shirt, his hands. Pins and needles prick his skin and all he can do is squirm against his cool sheets with a pillow between his legs.

It's never enough to satisfy his growing hunger.

Each time it happens it's late at night and the fire within grows so much hotter. He bites the cover of his pillow to stifle the noises that threaten to come out of his mouth. This feeling, the overwhelming pain, pleasure, and heat has to be coming from whatever his father injected into his veins. Whatever it was clearly hasn't left his system yet.

...

He blows out a breath, his covers thrown off of him as sweat begins to dampen his clothes. It hurts, his body tingles each time he so much as wiggles a finger.

He groans, rubbing his legs together, pushing the pillow against his clothed manhood, providing a spark of red hot pain. He curses his life as he's forced to bite down a yelp. He knows this is what he needs and that's why it's frustrating.

Why isn't this enough?

Why can't he soothe this on his own?

He sits up, grasping his hair in his right hand and yanking. He can't take this, it's too much. Five days of this would drive anyone insane.

His siblings are avoiding him.

His father is ignoring his existence.

He has no one to talk to.

He grasps his hair harder, grinding his teeth as the room begins to spin underneath him. His bandages around his forehead are starting to come loose but he pays them no mind.

He stands, his legs jellify with each step he takes. His walking is sluggish, he is wobbling as he opens his door, a gust of cold air hits him and settles some of the fire in his veins.

He contemplates asking someone if he can crash with them...he just doesn't want to be alone through this. But he doesn't take a step outside his door, he hasn't been able to. They'll turn him away, all of them, he's been nothing but a heavy worry on their heart.

He can't make them worry anymore.

He shuts the door.

————————————————————

"You can't avoid me forever," he says, chewing on the end of his pencil as he semi listens to his mother's lesson. 

Ben doesn't say anything.

"Ben," he coos, pressing the spit covered eraser against his brother's cheek. Ben cringes and wipes at his cheek but remains silent.

He pouts, chewing on the eraser again as he feels the sensation of guilt flood him. He shouldn't need to apologize, he shouldn't but...he should.

————————————————————

He doesn't.

Nobody cares about his side of the story so he doesn't bother with apologies. 

He sits in the attic, downing a handful of pills and praying that he doesn't wake up. It'll be so much easier for everyone else if he was dead. He falls back, letting his head bang off the floor.

He stares at the ceiling, watching as the one light becomes two. Visions come and go. 

He puts a hand behind his head as he lets the high take him. It grabs ahold of him with a bruising grip and refuses to let him go, not that he's trying to leave.

...

Something wet presses against his cheek, it stinks. A smell travels inside his nostrils but he can't pinpoint it for a moment. The wet thing traces something on his skin.

It's the smell of a marker.

A permanent one.

He bats it away as he opens his eyes, glaring up at...Five. Five who grins down at him as he exudes pride.

"Go away," he mumbles, turning on his side as he wipes away whatever his brother wrote on his face.

"Serves you right," Five says, capping the marker as his grin turns into a smug one.

"Stop it," he narrows his eyes at the carpet on the floor.

Five sighs, his grin falls and he takes a seat beside him. "Do you want to talk?" He asks, playing with the marker.

He looks back, his heart skipping a beat as Five looks at him...sincerely. It's weird, unnatural for Five at least. He sits up, rubbing a hand through his hair as words start to form on his tongue, ones he wants to say but afraid to voice.

"Did Dad send you to talk to me?"

Five frowns, rolling his eyes as he pops the mark cap off before popping it back on. "That's a rude assumption," he says, going to stand. "If you don't want my concern-"

He grasps his hand, pulling, keeping him there. Five looks towards him, freezing on his knees, dropping his tough-guy act just a bit.

"Klaus, you can talk to me," Five whispers, dropping the marker as he gives a reassuring smile. "I know you've got something on your mind."

He stares, squeezing Five's hand as he soaks in this concern. This concern, this small moment of peace Five didn't offer unless...unless he knows something. 

He tilts his head to the side, dropping Five's hand as he wets his lips.

"Klaus?"

Five sits down, slowly, and he hears it.

The rattle of pills clicking off a plastic bottle. He gets a sense of dread, his hands immediately patting his own chest only to realize his pills are gone. 

Five took them.

He knows he's on them again.

He stands, backing again. Guilt and embarrassment overtake him as he trembles. He clenches his hands into fists as he looks towards the floor.

"If you're going to lecture me just do it already!"

He tenses up as Five stands, his face still covered with a concerned expression. 

"I'm not going to, not today, maybe not even tomorrow because you don't deserve it. You wouldn't start taking these again, not so soon after what happened unless...you're hiding something."

He closes his eyes as his breathing becomes heavier as it seems like his brother is calling him out...almost like Five is suspecting something.

"I..."

Five gives him a smile.

"I..."

He takes a deep breath, steadying his voice. 

"I saw the name on father's wrist," he whispers, his voice tense and hoarse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably some typos but I’ll be back at some point to clean them up, like always.


	13. Chapter 13

"And?"

His cheeks flush red, just realizing how dramatic he sounds. The fact that his voice was so shaky and hoarse when he said something so simple. His statement means nothing to his brother, it doesn't fill him with dread like it does to him.

"It's my name..."

Five looks away, his smile fading off his lips. "It isn't the time for-"

"I'm serious!" He takes a step forward, his chest puffed out as he stares Five down.

Five rubs a hand through his hair as he blows out a breath. Just staring deep into his soul as he contemplates his words. "So what if you're telling the truth? Why would you be worked up over something so idiotic? It's just a soul-mark, it's probably more of a nuisance than anything to him. It isn't like dad is in the business of relationships or touching kids."

He tenses up.

Five narrows his eyes.

"You can't be serious."

He turns away, embarrassment pumping through his veins. Five grabs his hand, his eyebrows are crinkled in worry.

"Tell me you aren't serious."

He stays silent, his body is so hot he's sure he's going to pass out from a heat stroke soon. It's terrible although he wants this so much it's bad for his heart. 

"Klaus-"

"I told you," he swallows, wetting his throat, "I'm serious about this."

Five blinks a few times before nodding, his mouth opens to say something. He looks, watches so patiently while the sounds begin to form in slow motion.

The attic door creaks open.

Five stays silent.

The steps creak one by one as someone walks up the stairs.

He tenses up, clenching his eyes shut for a minute, expecting his father to come stop this before it gets out of hand. Before he spills all the dirty little secrets he's supposed to act like never happened.

"Did you find him?" It's Luther, his head just poking out after three painfully short steps. "Oh," he looks at them, his eyebrows furrowed as his eyes keep bouncing between them.

Five lets go of his hand.

"I suppose I did," Five said, placing a hand in his pocket as he begins to walk. 

He doesn't move.

Five looks back at him, staring for a moment before nodding. "We'll discuss this later."

"What?" Luther says, leaning on the railing with a smirk on his lips.

"Nothing that concerns you," Five doesn't look at Luther as he passes.

"What?" Luther says again, more snuggly as he walks back down the stairs.

He follows far behind them. He doesn't want to share the same air as them.

Five knows, he knows and he's believing a little bit, isn't he? It hurts, his heart, his chest, his lungs, it all hurts but at the same time he's being given relief.

He shuts the attic door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as Five and Luther continue to walk. Luther has a smug expression as he speaks and Five's lips are permanently drawn down in a frown. The contrast between the two is vast.

He leans back against the attic door, cursing Five because that asshole still has his pills.

————————————————————

He's on fire and it isn't from embarrassment. The heat flashes are on a cycle, they always start around the same time and end around the same time. He hates them and can't stand how much it makes him tingle with want.

He knows that they end. He'll be fine, they'll go away, it's the only way he doesn't go crazy. Just knowing there's an end to it drowns him in relief.

He isn't relieved tonight, no, because all he can hear is the dinging of mission bell and for a brief moment he hates his life. He gets dressed slowly, goosebumps travel up his skin as he exchanges his soft pjs for a stiff uniform.

They make the heat worse, containing it against him instead of letting it leave.

He takes a breath as Diego peers inside his room, no words are said, he's just making sure he's up. He's been late too many times. He puts on his mask and gives a smile to his brother who nods as he leaves.

Sweat begins to roll down his forehead, his hair is starting to stick to his skin so he ruffles his own hair. He's got to look normal, he can't display a weak appearance. He's going out into public as a crime-fighting superhero, not a high junkie just along for the ride.

————————————————————

Except that's all his siblings see him as right now. A nuisance, a junkie way over his head, he never helps anyway.

"You’re the lookout." Luther pokes him, his voice isn't full of malice but it sounds that way to him. It hurts, burns so much worse than the fire in his veins.

He nods, accepting this for what it is.

He turns around, clicking his tongue off of his teeth before opening the bank doors. He leans back against them after closing them, standing there with his vision blurring and the cool breeze relieving him.

The public stares, gives a couple yells for his attention and all he offers is a wave. They seem to melt over it as if it's the most affection they've ever received.

His father is standing next to a police cruiser, talking to the chief officer. He looks up at him, leaning against the doors, being a waste of space- the Lookout isn't exactly a needed nor active job. 

Nothing ever happens.

His father stops his conversation, excusing himself to go talk with him, his unruly son.

He tenses up, his knees starting to liquify beneath him. He isn't sure if it's from his father's painstakingly slow steps or the drug traveling in his system again. 

His father looms over him, looking down at him through the monocle. He's trembling and it's half because his legs are about to give out and half because his stomach is filling up with butterflies.

"What now?" He mumbles, his words are slurred and they almost sound wet. He cringes, pressing a hand over his lips as his father stares him down.

"Dad?" He tilts his head, hiding his mouth behind his hand because he's starting to drool. It's embarrassing, too embarrassing. Even if it's his father's fault in the first place.

A hand is placed against his forehead head, he freezes as his father stays silent. "You have a fever," he says after a moment, dropping his hand as he almost exudes concern.

He's probably seeing things, the fever is getting to him. His father isn't really concerned, this is all just one bad dream.

"Do you wish to rest?" 

He shakes his head, looking away from his father and at the crowd of people. Their shirt colors merging together into a dirty brown as they start to spin in a wash cycle. He cups his forehead with his other hand, dizziness is consuming him and his knees are giving out. 

He starts to fall and his father grasps his arm tightly, keeping him from banging his head again. He stares at the concrete steps before he notices the frown on his father's lips.

"You are an embarrassment," his father growls, his noses scrunching up in disgust.

Yes, he is isn't he?

He pants as he scratches a line down his neck bringing him back to reality and allowing his vision to clear up. He stands, the hush mumbles of his fans are barely any more than tv static in his ears. "Sorry," he slurs, swallowing down all the saliva that threatens to drip on his chin.

His father presses a hand on his back, digging his fingers into the cloth before pulling. He's practically dragged along but no one really seems to notice. His steps aren't calculated and he almost falls multiple times because of a few rocks.

He huffs a breath as his father opens the car door and shoves him inside.

"Stay." 

He nods, pulling his knees into his chest before burying his head against them. The car door is slammed shut without any of the gingerness his father usually used.

He closes his eyes, listening to the voice in his head...his father's voice.

'You're useless'

'You're an embarrassment'

'You're habits are unsightly'

'You look like you want me to touch you'

'Pull yourself together you look as if you were raped'

Tears prick his eyes and his vision blurs again. He hums to himself, just trying to comfort his own broken heart.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have Five in his natural habitat talking too much about the wrong stuff. I love Five but he is a asshole at the moment. <3

"Did he really...touch you?" Five asks as he pulls a book out from underneath his bed. It's brown, old, and rather disgusting looking in his opinion.

He nods, unable to say it out loud.

"Did you-" Five swallows as he opens up the book "-want it?" 

He cringes internally and externally. His face flushes red, his stomach churns and his voice trembles as he speaks. "No! Of course not, why would you even think that?" He almost wants to hit Five, just because it makes his skin feel as if it's being slowly removed allowing his internal layers to dry out.

"I didn't think that...but with you, I couldn't be sure. Not that you wanting it would make it okay, just less...messed up." Five backtracks a little, he sees it, but he takes a deep breath and stays silent.

He digs his nails into the wooden floor and drags. It hurts.

"Its a more common situation than you would think. One person having someone as a soulmate that otherwise shouldn't," He says, reading over a few lines in the book. "Although normally it's associated with the receiver's soulmate dying and in-turn allowing fate to rebind you together with another person, usually someone close to you." He tilts head as he shuts the book, a puff of dust flys up.

He coughs as he digs his nails harder into the floor. A piercing pain shoots up his arm and blood starts dribbling down his fingertip.

"I'm not entirely sure how that applies to dad. But in any case, it is possible."

He rubs his blood into the floor.

"What? Did you not believe me?" His voice is so hoarse and dry. He hates how much different it sounds now.

Last night, in front of his father he couldn't get it to stop sounding so nasty and wet. Sitting inside the car all he could do was hate his very existence while his siblings soaked up all of the crowd's praise.

"I needed proof that such a thing is even possible and I doubt dad would let me see it."

His blood is making a little puddle on the floor...it's cute.

"You aren't making me feel better," he whispers, feeling the blood dripping ever so slowly off his finger.

"I'm not trying to. If you want my two cents shut up."

He does.

"Your soulmate is most likely dead," he places his fingers in the blood puddle and swirls it around. "Fate, in turn, had to find you someone else?" Five tilts his head before shaking it. "That probably isn't right maybe it's the other way around. Dad lost his original soulmate...or did he ever have one to start with? I don't think he did." Five huffs a breath. 

"I suppose this could all be bad luck, too much bad luck coming together and sticking to you. Fate finally deciding to wrap the red string of fate around dad's wrist and dragging it to you, entangling itself in your red string."

He's trying not to listen.

Five scratches his head, pulling a few papers out of his nightstand and a pen before sitting back down and starting to write equations. It's no doubt time travel mumbo jumbo.

"I don't know really the legality of it." Five whispers, writing a few lines of numbers. "Sexual assault is a big offense of course but between soulmates? It's a lesser evil some courts say along with a surprising amount of people. Soulmates are considered a true love's bond it extends through time and space. Unfortunately, cases like yours are rare and I'm afraid that not much would be done."

He stares, bringing his blood-covered fingers tips to his mouth before licking them.

"I see,” He whispers, hoping his voice doesn't tremble as much as it sounds like to him. He's about to cry. 

His heart hurts.

He stands as his eyes water and takes a few steps to the doorway. Quickly, he can't let Five see him cry. His brother already thinks he's weak.

He stops just as his feet edge the doorway. Five was so cruel and brutally honest about it...but that isn't how he really feels right? He has to have some compassion, he has to see it's a messed up situation.

He has to see how disgusting it is and how nasty it makes him feel. He has to know. He has to know and yet he didn't say that he's sorry or that dads a fucking sick bastard. He didn't even defend him...he just spat out all this legality stuff instead of actually picking a side.

He turns around, tears rolling down his cheek as he clenches his fists together. One of them is being painted with blood.

"What do you think Five? That I'm okay with this? Do you think I care what Fate wants? What about dad huh? Do you think he's allowed to...do that just because fate tells him he's allowed?" He pants when he's done, staring down at Five who stares back but doesn't say a word.

"Do what?" A voice says behind him, a hand is placed on his bloody hand, unraveling it. "How awful, you've got to take better care of yourself."

He tenses up, feeling his father's cold hand against his bloodied warmth.

Five taps his pen off the floor as he stands there with his father behind him, no doubt giving Five a glare.

"I think it is a messed up situation," Five bites on his pen as he speaks. "Dad has an excuse, fate, which in most courts will hold up but nonetheless he should know better than to act on his impulses until you are of age and can decide if this is what you want. He discarded that logical and instead replaced it with his own. Knowing you'd never desire him the way he desires you he decided to take what he wants without any concern for your wellbeing.” Five glares at him, it's heated, but he knows it's meant for his father.

His father is silent.

His father radiates anger behind him.

He's stuck in the middle and he hates it.

He hates the tears that roll down his cheeks and the fact that his brother still sounds so heartless. It's probably because he doesn't understand how it feels, how it feels to be touched against your will and told you wanted it. He just doesn't know...that's why he can't be supportive to him.

That has to be it.

He's always the one getting hurt and he's always the one pretending everything is okay. His brother just figures this is no different right? But it is...it's the worse type of pain he's ever had to go through.

Maybe if he explained it with detail while crying his eyes out. Maybe if he said how scared he was, how dirty he felt, how cold his father's hand was on his manhood. Maybe then Five would show some compassion.

"True love," Five chuckles, writing another line on the paper. "I wonder how it feels...Is it really enough to make you touch your own child like that?"

His father pulls on his wrist, dragging him away with a bruising grip. He's livid and that anger is being directed towards him.

He's scared because...there's nothing he can do...isn't that what Five said? He's supposed to just grin and bear it because the rest of the world thinks it's okay? Because they're technically soulmates? Because they're supposedly experiencing the most powerful love- true love.

"Are you mad...at Five?"

His father doesn't look back at him.

"Why would I be?"

Oh, of course. He watches his blood taint his father's hand as he's pulled along.

He pulls back a little, just feeling like...he has to do something. He can't just...let it happen but he feels so weak.

He's useless, an embarrassment, just a waste of space and his father's money. Now finally his father actually has a use for him and it's...just pure torture. 

This is all too cruel.

————————————————————

His father wraps his fingertip up in a white bandage. He stares at it, just watching as his father wraps it almost methodically.

"Are you mad?" He asks, keeping his voice low because the infirmary had a habit of making sounds echo.

His father says nothing, all he does is grab a slightly damp washcloth out of the sink before wiping the blood that had dripped down his fingertip. He's careful not to touch the bandages.

He shivers, feeling his father being so...soft with him. He actually seems to be concerned? He isn't sure but he does know he is unnerved from the mere contact he's getting from his father.

His father used to want nothing to do with him, getting this care is just too much to even comprehend.

"You're free to go," his father says as he uses the washcloth to wipe the blood off his own hand.

He stays silent and still, waiting for something, anything. His father is lying isn't he? He has to be. There's some catch, there's more, something bad is going to happen.

"Are you deaf?" His father's voice is harsh and pumps his blood full of fear.

He gets up, off the infirmary bed, and walks out the door without another doubt. He holds his now bandage hand out in-front of him, staring at it like it held all the answers.

He bumps into someone.

He looks up, frowning. Luther looks down at him, smiling. 

"What happened to you?" Luther asks and he has to decency to drop his smile.

He shrugs, looking at his finger before sighing. "Just another accident," he mumbles, starting to walk again.

Luther grasps his arm, opening his mouth to say something.

"One."

Luther drops his arm and turns his attention to their father.

He keeps walking.

————————————————————

He curls into a ball on his bed, just staring at the wall. Listening to the sound of nothing, no laughter, no talking, nothing. There's never any real noise unless their father went out.

His hand hovers over his clothed penis, his mind is consumed with the thought that it's no longer pure. He wishes he could cut it off so he'd stop being reminded every waking moment that it's a part of him. A part his father should have never have touched but he has.

He cringes, dropping his hand as he turns around and stares at the upper corner of his room. At the camera that's pointed down at his bed, it's red light blinking, omnisciently telling him it's recording.

He stares at it, at the man on the other side who is no doubt watching.

He smiles to himself, closing his eyes, just rebelling in the fact that he's being watched. Somehow it just makes everything a degree worse but at the same time he's always known the camera was there.

It records him rubbing against his pillows, it records him withering in his sheets from a nightmare, it records him downing pills. It records everything because that's precisely what it was made to do.

He wonders briefly, if his father enjoys watching him squirm at night. Sweat rolling down his skin, bitting his lips to keep his noises inside, his hips humping a pillow in search of relief that he can't find.

His father probably loves it...doesn't he? Does he laugh at how disgusting he looks? Does he smiles to himself knowing that he's caused his nights to be so horrifying? Does he rub himself slowly as he watches his son cry because he's in so much pain?

He smiles as the camera looks down at him.

His father must be so happy with himself isn't he? So happy that he's the only one that can provide him with relief. He's just so happy that someday it's going to be too much and he'll be forced to go begging to him.

His father is a good man in his own eyes. A good man who is waiting patiently for his son to give up, for his son to come to him crying and broken. He's waiting for his son to beg him to touch him and to please take the pain away.

He doesn't know why this amuses him so much but he can't get himself to stop smiling. Maybe it's because it sounds so absurd to him or maybe it's because he's trying to stop himself from breaking down into a sobbing mess.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda wanna smack Five with a spoon. Is that werid? That’s probably weird.

His body starts to warm, the moonlight trickles over his bed and he gets a bright idea. Certainly not the brightest idea but it sounds good.

A bath.

All he needs is a nice, cold bath.

So he makes his way to the bathroom as quietly as he can because they aren't exactly supposed to be out of bed right now. He really doesn't want a lecture, not right now, not on this.

He closes the bathroom door behind him before he plugs the bath and turns the cold water knob. The water fills up the bath, no steam is raising like there usually is. He sticks his hand in it, and his body immediately softens.

It feels good.

It gives him relief.

He strips and gets it while he still has half of his mind. Goosebumps travel up his skin but the water gives him relief he hasn't felt in days. He leans back, laying against the porcelain tub as an icy pool filled around him.

after his body is thoroughly submerged he turns the cold water tap in the opposite direction with his feet. A difficult but manageable task. 

He closes his eyes, his stomach is starting to cramp up but it isn't as bad as usual. Not even half as bad.

He sinks into the water, keeping his eyes closed. for a moment loving the feeling of death crawling up his body.

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

————————————————————

"Are you okay?" 

He blinks before rubbing at his eyes, messily. His hands have gone numb and he can't feel his fingertips. His lips tremble, cold, he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

"Klaus?" 

A hand is placed on his cheek before being removed as if the hand had been burned.

"You're freezing! What kind of idiot sleeps in the bath?" Diego says, reaching down in the water before pulling the drain stopper out. He stands and looks around like it's the first time he's ever seeing the bathroom before grabbing a towel from underneath the sink.

He tries to stand but his legs are completely frozen. Pins and needles shoot up his body leaving red hot sparks in their wake. He hisses as he sways on his knees, unsure if he can get up any further or if he really wants to.

His body is numb, his mind isn't working, he feels as if for a moment it's better for him here. In the bathtub dying of hypothermia.

Diego drapes the towel around his shoulders before he offers him a hand. He takes it and Diego pulls him up, which probably isn't a good idea.

"You're going to catch a cold," Diego mutters, still holding his hand, pulling gently. "If you haven’t already."

He tries to step over the bathtub lip but ends up falling straight into Diego. His brother catches him and for it's worth he's not grateful. Maybe if he hit the floor he'd crack his skull open, maybe he could die.

He wishes he were dead.

That's the only way to get out of this right? The life he's living isn't one worth living.

"You're late for breakfast. Dad is upset with you, if you're lucky he might save you someone's leftovers."

He closes his eyes, leaning into Diego, hating how he wants to die so much yet his body instinctively craves the warmth his brother gives out. It's as if it wants to live and he hates it.

"I'm...I'm not-not hungry." His voice is hoarse and his vocal cords are frozen. He can barely talk and it takes too much effort. There's a reason they don't bathe at night like this let alone sleep in the tub.

The only heat in the house comes from fireplaces and none of them are located near this or any bathroom really. So all it takes is shutting the door to make the place seem like Antarctica.

He huffs a breath before pushing Diego away. He walks out of the bathroom with his brother three steps behind because he's worried. 

He takes the towel off his shoulders and wraps it around his body, it doesn't stay. His hands don't have enough coordination to do it right now.

"Pervert," he says, looking back at his brother, grinning with trembling lips.

Diego smacks the back of his head, harder than he probably meant to. He hisses, clenching a hand on his head as he curses his life. "That's mean," he whispers although he knew it was coming.

He knew and he opened his mouth anyway.

"I knocked five times! It's not my fault you sleep like a rock." Diego looks away, red tinting his cheeks.

He shrugs, walking into his room before falling on his bed and burying himself underneath his blanket. He lets the towel fall on the floor.

Diego frowns at him.

"You have to come to breakfast even if you're late." 

He rolls over.

"Dad is already mad enough as it is."

He closes his eyes.

Diego makes a noise of impatience and he's grinding his teeth. He can hear it but he ignores it.

"I don't care," he mumbles, rubbing his head into his pillow.

"I'm trying to-" Diego mumbles the rest and then he turns around. His footsteps are heavy, almost like he's stomping.

He stares at his wall before looking down at his hand. He looks at the white bandages, hating how...impure they make him. He rips them off and feels immense satisfaction in doing so.

He brings his scabbing fingertip to his mouth and starts chewing on his nail. It crackles in his ear as pain begins to radiate but he ignores both.

————————————————————

He sneezes and his mother looks at him as if he's caught the plague. She presses her hand on his forehead as she sits down beside him. "I hope you aren't catching a cold sweetie," she says, moving her hand to rub his head.

He closes his eyes and drowns in this feeling.

"You should rest today," she says, her voice a sweet melody singing him to sleep. "I'll let your father know." She leans down and gives his forehead a kiss.

The place where parents are supposed to kiss their child.

He nods and she smiles down at him as she gets up to leave. Ben stands at the door and their mother ruffles his hair as she passes. 

Ben comes inside and sits beside him. He pulls a leg up on the bed and sitting his head on it. "I'm still mad at you," he whispers as he lets his eyes drift on him.

"Are you really sick?"

He shrugs.

Ben huffs before pushing on him and he slides over. His brother lays down beside him, on top of the covers, just staring. "What were you and Five talking about yesterday?" Ben asks, his voice a low whisper as he rubs at his own neck, embarrassment crawling up it.

He shrugs again.

"Can't you talk?"

He shrugs for a third time.

Ben frowns before hitting him lightly on the chest. He brings his hand to his mouth to muffle a few coughs.

"Want to know a secret?" he mumbles and his brother rolls over. To be closer, to hear this no doubt stupid secret. He leans over, cupping a hand around his brother's ear before he whispers inside.

"I got a handy last week."

Ben punches him, hard, and he deserves it. He knows and that's why he's laughing like an idiot. His hand is over his mouth quieting down his disgusting laughter. It's hoarse and wet, gross sounding if nothing else.

"Can't you ever be serious? I don't know why I bother being concerned with you."

He understands.

He was thinking about adding his father into his secret but he just couldn't do it. At the last second fear overtook him and all he could imagine was Ben laughing at him and brushing him off.

He stops laughing and just stares at Ben. His brother gets up, glaring holes at him.

He accepts it.

————————————————————

"I am sorry." Five says...a lot like a robot. He's trying to conceal a little white card in his palm and his face is covered in indifference. "I was rude and not sympathetic to your-" he looks at the card- "delicate situation."

A floorboard outside his open door creaks and he notices a shadow standing there. Small, feminine, Seven. 

It's Vanya's shadow.

"I'm so happy to hear this dearest brother," he draws on, cracking his neck as Five looks at him like he's staring at a wall. "I can't help but notice that white card...this wouldn't happen to be a forced apology would it?"

Five sighs, dragging a hand down his face as the shadow outside his room moves from one foot to the other.

"No of course not? Why would you suspect that?" Five's monotone voice is somehow laced with sarcasm.

He smiles.

"Then why is Vanya standing outside my room?" He smiles, his blankets pooled around his waist as he sits with his back against the wall.

He should probably get dressed.

Probably is the keyword.

Vanya peers inside the room, her eyes scream uncertainty but she takes a deep breath before entering. Her movements are stiff, a smile is pasted on her lips, and it all makes her look like she's uncomfortable.

She plays with her skirt, her eyes darting away from him as Five gives him a shrug.

"Vanya?" He asks, unsure if he's the one that should be in bed and not her.

Vanya tears up, her eyes glass over as she opens her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispers and he furrows his eyebrows. 

She takes a few steps before sitting on the bed beside him. She wraps her arms around him as she forces him into her embrace. "I'm so sorry!" Tears are rolling down her cheek and her chest is starting to contract as small little sobs leave her mouth.

He looks to Five who looks away, feigning innocence.

Five told her.

Vanya Knows.

He puts a hand on her back, patting it as his own eyes start to water. He can't help it, it's contagious isn't it?

Five hesitates before pressing a hand on his back and giving him a few pats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a few bombs dropped next chapter so prepare your heart.
> 
> I’ll be back later to look this over but I’ve had a migraine all day so there are probably typos at the moment.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are wondering Reggie has an actual goal aside from traumatizing Klaus...

He sees it the moment Five pats his back. The missing puzzle piece he's been seeking.

Five's sleeve rides up his arm for only a split second but that's all it takes to see the pink, raw flesh. There's something carved into the skin.

His brother finally got his soul mark.

Five retracts his hand from him, glaring at him. "It's none of your business," he snaps at him only from his staring. Who's name is it? Why is it so bad? Is this why he's been so moody lately?

Did he have it yesterday? Was he just so fed up with himself...he didn't notice it?

His tears dry up as he stares at Five...at the tint on his cheeks. He doesn't think he's ever seen Five blush before but he definitely is. 

Five crumples up the white card in his hand as he turns around. Anger seeping out of his pores although he isn't sure what from. Why is he trying to keep it a secret?

He wipes at Vanya's cheeks, listening to her soft sobs that come and go. She tries to keep it together but it's hard. He understands although...he's the one who's supposed to be crying.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Vanya says against his neck as she brings him in closer,

"Not now," he whispers, mainly because he doesn't think her heart could handle the truth.

Her body goes slack against him, her breath tickles his neck and the room falls into silence. He's uncomfortable, very. He wanted someone to believe him but...it isn't as good as he imagined it.

"What's up with Five?" Diego says, popping in his door, his mouth still open like he's going to say more but he doesn't. He sees Vanya, her eyes puffy and red. 

He stays quiet.

Diego tilts his head and points at her as if asking what's wrong with her.

He shrugs.

Diego walks inside, slowly, pressing a hand along her back as if trying to comfort her. He doesn't say anything but she looks up at him. "It's awful isn't it?" She says, grasping Diego's hand and looking at him in a strange way almost like she's seeking validation.

Diego looks at her like she's crazy.

"What is?"

She grasps his hand harder, pulling it, and her eyes glass all over again. He gets a strange instinct, one to press a hand over her mouth. He doesn't want her to tell him, he doesn't want his brother to know because he'll laugh.

Or maybe he'll ask him to explain.

Then he will. 

He'll say his father touched him in such a disgusting way...and then his brother will call him sick. He'll say he should have fought harder. Somehow he'll say it's all his fault.

He knows.

He wishes he wasn't here. He should have kept his mouth shut. He needs to think about other things...like how angry his father must have been this morning.

'Number Four better be throwing up or dead because if I have to drag him out of bed it's solitary for a week.'

He smiles to himself his mind's impression of his father is terrible.

He wonders if Diego volunteered to get him and if so was father upset he returned without him...

"Father's soulmate," she swallows, her head swaying side to side as she tries to avoid eye contact, "is Klaus."

Diego chuckles at first, ruffling his blankets, pulling a bit before he realizes she doesn't find this funny. "You can't be seriously listening to him. You're so gullible." He says and she glares.

"I am not."

"You are too."

He stands, looking at him.

"When you're done playing the victim let me know." It hurts so much but he knows that...Diego wouldn't believe so easily. Not this, not after what he just did. It'd be easy he supposes, to make this whole situation up as some sort of excuse for his actions, drugging himself or sleeping in the bath.

As if maybe almost dying isn't that bad compared to his father wanting him...like that.

"Dad wants to see you," Diego says as he leaves, a smile on his lips. "I'm sure he'll believe your little fantasy."

She tenses up against him, looking at him as if...he's a wounded puppy. "You don't have to go, you shouldn't go. He isn't happy with you right now and if you went maybe he'd-" she trails off but he gets what she is saying.

He might want to relieve his anger on him, it wouldn't be the first time. Training often left him in a good mood...but now he can relieve his stress in another way. A way that's giving him nightmares.

"It'll be fine. I'm sick remember? He has to be nice to me."

He lies because she still believes him and it's his responsibility to keep himself together. If he lost it, if he got worked up...she'd get upset all over again and he doesn't like to see that.

It breaks him, seeing someone as kind-hearted as her crying for him.

————————————————————

"Four isn't a bad fighter but compared to the rest of us he's-" he stops outside his father's office doors, listening to Luther speak.

"Subpar?"

"Yes."

He knocks on the door, interrupting because he doesn't like this conversation, at all. He opens the door, slowly, peering in. Being rebellious because he deserves this after being forced into a stiff suit.

"Can I come in?" He asks after opening it a quarter of the way, realizing he probably shouldn't make his father any angrier than he is.

"It seems as if you've already let yourself in." 

He's angry.

He opens the door all the way and keeps his head to the floor. He can at least act like he's ashamed. Luther stares at him like he's doing something strange.

His father closes his journal he had been writing in and stands. He walks towards him and his heart pounds erratically although he knows his father can't do anything, not with Luther so close...at least he hopes his brother wouldn't allow something disgusting to happen.

His father pulls the door behind him closed with a bang and he flinches.

"I'm rather disappointed in you Four but I suppose I can forgive you," His father says, grasping his hand before pulling.

He pulls back and breaks his father's grasp. He looks at him wide-eyed and shivering. He isn't sure why it startled him so much, his father has done that before, but something just scared him.

All he could see for a moment was his father touching his penis and he panicked.

"Four," His father growls, grabbing his hand and pulling twice as hard. He will probably have a bruise. He's pulled to the armchair in front of his father's desk.

"Sit."

He does.

There's nothing on this chair that could tie him down. Besides Luther wouldn't let that happen.

"Is this going to hurt?" Luther asks, his tone even as if he isn't really worried.

He looks to Luther like he's crazy.

"No," his father says, grasping a bottle of something from his inner coat pocket before pulling it out. It rattled in a familiar way... he knows it has pills inside. He pops the lid off and gives one to Luther before dropping one in his palm.

"Swallow."

Luther downs his without a second thought.

He can't. He looks at and all he sees is another lust drug or death in pill form. His father glares at him and he raises the pill, taking a deep breath before swallowing.

"Fu-" the word trails off as Luther grasps his own wrist, hissing. Red splotches form around the area he's hiding before small droplets of blood start to bubble at the sides of his palm. 

Underneath it is a soul mark forming.

When Luther lifts his hand palm, biting his lips as he looks at his wrist. It reads 'Four' in big crudely carved letters. Red, bloody, puffy, almost alive on his skin as it starts to pulsate.

His wrist tingles.

His wrist that's still unscathed starts to burn. It's familiar in a way. He clenches his fist together as a name a slowly etched into his skin. 'Luther' is being written, branded into him with an invisible knife he can't see.

He hates how pleasing the pain is.

"This is-" Luther starts, rubbing over the letters on his wrist.

"-Not permanent." His father finished, looking upon the marks as if he actually likes them. He looks pleased and he was never pleased.

"You’re both part of a scientific achievement show some pride."

He has none left.

Luther smiles, looking at his wrist in a way as if he's torn between liking it and hating it. On one hand, he's being praised on the other hand it's his brother's name.

Disgusting.

A sensation travels up his spine, one that reminds him distinctly like his heat flashes. Then his soul mark pulsates and almost seems like it's glowing. 

It's reacting to Luther's mark.

This sensation crawling inside him, the heat that is starting to pump in his veins...is it due to the mark? His stomach cramps, pure want pumps through him and he for a moment hates his wrist.

His heat flashes feel the same as this.

Why had he been experiencing this already? What does it accomplish? Was the drug that his father forced into him supposed to simulate a soul-mark?

He isn't weak to the sensation of lust pouring over him but Luther is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always I’ll be back at some point to look this over <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to write this but it’s a chapter that makes me mildly uncomfortable so, yeah? There is touching and I suppose incesty things but there isn’t any noncon but there is an air of non con. I guess I’m not quite sure how to describe it but it’s all done for necessity sake?
> 
> Honestly if you think this chapter isn’t for you, you can skip the second part of it (The part after the ———) and for the most part get the picture of what happened in future chapters since klaus will internalize this to hell and back.

There are a lot of things he could be thinking about.

The scientific achievements that just occurred before his very eyes. The fact that his father said it isn't permanent which applies he can remove it. The fact that Luther, his big strong brother is crouching down, holding his stomach and hissing from pain.

He's more upset at the fact that the name on his wrist is Luther and the name on his brother's wrist is Four.

Why? Why isn't Klaus written there instead? This isn't the time to think about this but it just keeps nawing at him.

"It hurts," Luther says, his voice still even, still him. He grasps a hand in his father's pants as sweat begins to roll down his forehead.

"You said it's not permanent?" He says, almost like a question because he's sure if his father could remove it he would have removed his a long time ago.

His father looks at him.

"Yes, in the bigger scheme of things, those marks aren't permanent. Although I lack the power to remove them personally." His father's words send shivers up his spine.

He rubs a fingertip over each redden letter, coating his fingertip in his own blood.

"Is your soul-mark...temporary too?"

His father avoids the question.

"It took me a while to perfect this formula. I was missing a few pieces at first. Humans are the only animal to have the ability of soulmates. So I believed that I had to do with their frontal lobes. After research, I found this was only half the issue. I didn't learn the other half until yesterday when I came into possession of a sample of your blood."

He stares, he can't help it, he feels really dumb.

"The blood that pumps through your veins dictates this. Although outside factors do affect it. Which is precisely why your wrist says Luther and your brother's says Four. It's all about frontal lobe perception."

He doesn't understand and he isn't sure if it's because he's stupid or the fact his head is starting to swirl.

"One, I have no intention of helping you." his father says, grasping Luther's hand and placing it on him. He feels it immediately, the ice-cold relief flowing through, not that he really needs it.

It's good but having a soulmate is nowhere as painful as the drug his father forced into him. The only major difference is the fact that his lust is drawn to Luther.

Luther flinches before staring at him like he's...delicious.

"Just imagine a world where you could pick your soulmate or one where you could remove unhealthy soulmates. Of course, at the moment this idea is just now coming into a developmental stage but there is plenty of time for experimenting."

He feels a spark of fear when Luther rubs a hand up his leg, shivering like the relief that follows is just so good. He remembers when his father first put the drug in him and how much he wanted to be touched despite the fact that it disgusted him.

The touch was relief and he needed it.

Luther must feel the same way right now. It's powerful at first because you're afraid.

"How do we get rid of it?" He asks and he fully doesn't expect an answer aside from figure it out but he's panicking.

Each time Luther touches him he gets flashbacks of his father rubbing his penis, slowly, methodically. His father doesn't acknowledge any of his stops or nos. It is scary.

He clenches his eyes shut.

"Please!" He begs his father who hums.

"Klaus," Luther mumbles, his hand trailing up his legs, up his stomach and up his chest. It lands on his cheek, cupping as he gives him a drunken smile. "Calm down," Luther whispers, his words slightly slurred as he rubs a circle against his soft skin.

"Stop touching me," he says, pushing on Luther's hand. 

Luther drops it.

This has to be a punishment for skipping breakfast right? His father didn't forgive him, why would he? He has an abundance of mottos but 'forgive and forget' has never been one them.

"I thought this was supposed to be a bonding experience?" Luther pants as he speaks, sweat beginning to roll down his forehead and stray hairs smooth against it. 

"Oh it is most definitely a bonding experience," His father says, leaning off his desk before taking a few steps to the door. "Come along now, this will get messy and I'd prefer us to change locations."

He stands, his legs trembling beneath him but he's used to it. Luther struggles to stand upright, his legs probably feel like pure jelly. He remembers the feeling.

He offers his brother a shoulder which he takes. Luther leans on him heavily, a hand holds him tightly while for a moment he leans into his neck and sniffs. "You smell sweet," Luther mumbles and he freezes for a moment.

It's horrifying to be told that from him.

His father makes a noise of impatience and they start to walk.

————————————————————

They are walked to a guest bedroom and Luther stops leaning on him for some reason. He doesn't want to think too deeply about it but it might be because he's hard.

His brother's boner dug inside his side for the last five minutes and although it made him uncomfortable he didn't say anything. That doesn't mean Luther didn't see the discomfort on his face because he definitely did.

His father gestures for them to go inside.

Luther goes first because he's Number One. He's still their father's puppy dog.

He takes a step to follow him before his father pulls the door shut and locks it with a key.

He stares at the door, for a moment his brain doesn't even register what happened until he hears Luther's voice.

"Dad!"

His father stares at the door.

"It hurts," his brother starts to sob. It's a terrible, heart-piercing sound because Luther doesn't cry.

He looks at the door, his instincts tell him to try and open it. He has to help...it's all his fault his brother is in this situation.

His brother sobs, the door creaks as his brother pounds his hands against it. He could break through it if he really wanted to or maybe he can't. Maybe he's too weak right now. He's afraid because when you first experience it you feel as if you're going to die.

Your body is lit up with an invisible flame.

"I'll do anything please make it stop," his brother begs as he pounds on the door.

"Do you wish to soothe his pain?" His father asks, a strange smile appearing on his lips. 

He nods.

"He'll only find relief once he's inside of you."

He freezes, staring at his father as if he's absolutely crazy because...it is crazy.

"That's how you remove the temporary soul marks." His father continues, his grin dropping and a grimace replaces it. "They are only removed once you give in to the temptation they desire."

He looks at the name on his wrist and cringes. Luther is his brother, Luther is his leader, Luther is his friend. He knows that he should give him relieve, it's his responsibility to help his brother through this but...

He can't have sex with him.

That's a line he won't cross.

"Please!" His brother's voice is slurring and wet, so very wet. He feels so guilty.

"I'll leave him in there all night if you don't intend to help him."

His father did this to force him into a corner. He has to help Luther, doesn't he? He has to because otherwise he'll be in pain.

Unlike his heat flashes this pain won't go away.

"I'll do it," he mumbles, his voice taking on a wet tone as well.

His father didn't tell Luther about this because he knew he wouldn't do it if he knew. If he knew he had to touch his own brother, if he knew he had to go inside of him...Luther would have never signed up.

His brother may be a blond but he's not that cruel.

His father unlocks the door and pushes him inside before locking it again. Luther sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest and his hands wrap around himself.

"Hey it's okay," he sits down on his knees and places a hand on Luther's head. His brother sighs in contentment as he leans back against the bed. 

"Sorry," his brother whispers as his sobs slow down, relief overwhelming him. He just tilts his head to the side in response.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He smiles as saliva builds up in his mouth. He swallows it all preventing himself from drooling. "I wasn't," he lies because Luther should be comfortable around him. It isn't like it's his fault anyway.

He trails the hand down Luther's neck, down his chest, and then stomach just at the dip of his stomach. He rubs circles while his brother groans from the relief and not enough relief.

He stops and his brother whines.

"Let's lay down on the bed," he says, standing as he offers Luther a hand to pull him up. Luther takes it and he guides him to the side of the bed and helps him underneath the covers.

He lays down beside him and puts his hands back on his brother's stomach and rubs.

"Feels good," Luther mumbles and he makes a noise of agreement.

"I'll do it until you feel better," he whispers and his brother starts to drool. 

He doesn't say he knows how to make it go away because he isn't sure if he's able to stomach doing what he needs to do. It's too much, it's disgusting, it's a revolting thought.

What if Luther started to protest and told him to stop? He'd never be able to feel pure again because at that point he'd be no better than his father.

His brother trembles as another wave of lust hits him, drool rolls down his chin, and his eyes dilate. He pants and his legs keep rubbing together, searching for relief he won't be able to get on his own.

He knows how much it hurts.

He acts like he doesn't see his brother's predicament. He just lets his hand slip underneath his brother's shirt and continues to rub soothing circles on his brother's stomach.

His brother hisses as he clenches his eyes up in pain for a moment. Luther puts his hands on his, stopping the movement before pushing his hand off and flipping around so he isn't facing him anymore.

He reaches a hand out to try and touch him again. Luther bats his hand away.

"Don't," his brother says between his pants. "I-I feel weird." Luther presses a hand against the bulge in his pants and immediately he curls in on himself from the pain.

He cringes as he wraps a hand around his brother and presses it back on his stomach. "I know," he whispers, rubbing circles as he himself feels the need to rub his legs together. He's fine though, he's been through it enough that the feeling is almost normal now.

"I can help you," he says, his voice just above a whisper because some part of him hopes his brother doesn't hear.

His brother is silent for a while, just staring at the wall as if he's in a comatose state. His body cramps up and he's hissing before he grasps his hand and forces it on the bulge in his pants.

He cringes and he's glad his brother can't see his face.

"It feels so good," his brother says as he begins to rub the outline of his pants. Luther grasps his hand after he says it and holds it still with a bruising grip. "Stop," he says and he does without question. 

"I'm here for you," he whispers, closing his own eyes as Luther's hand trembles.

"It's wrong," Luther says as he holds his hand tighter, tears are rolling down his cheek. "But I need-" his voice trails off hoarsely before he forces his hand to lay on his bulge again, he sounds like he's about to start sobbing.

"I understand."

He rubs Luther's bulge with his eyes closed. With his brother facing away from him he simply imagines he's rubbing himself. It's the easiest way to do this, to make it all better. 

He unzips Luther's pants and when he receives no protests he slips his hand inside. He rubs on top of his boxers in all the ways that he likes because he's trying his best to imagine that he's touching himself.

He's touching himself and that's it. 

That's all this is.

"Is this okay?" He asks when he slips a finger underneath his boxers.

"Yes," Luther says after a good moment. His eyes are closed and he refuses to look back at him. He doesn't blame him because he's doing the same thing.

He takes his hand off for a moment and Luther whines again. He whines and bucks his hips in search of relief he needs so much. He has to be embarrassed, there's no way that he isn't.

He's probably embarrassed and disgusted at the fact that he can't think straight without his brother's hand on his penis.

How terrible, how fucking terrible. He knows exactly how hopeless it feels.

He spits in his palm before slipping his hand underneath Luther's boxers. He grasps his penis and rubs up and down, just the way he likes. Because he's still trying his hardest to convince himself that he's just touching himself.

That's hard, so hard because his own penis keeps twitching and making silent protests. It keeps telling him he's touching the wrong organ and he keeps telling it that he isn't.

His brother bucks his hips at the same pace he's touching. It's awkward, the room is filled with Luther's voice, his panting, his moaning, his groaning, and all he can do is act like he hears none of it.

His brother can't help it.

He rubs the head, round and round his fingers circle it. Luther moans as he bites down on the pillow to try and keep himself from losing anymore dignity.

Then his hips slow, the pillows dampen underneath his mouth as drool drips down. A warm substance coats his hand and for a moment he's hit with the urge to throw up.

He can't move, he can't breathe, he can't handle it. "Sorry," Luther mumbles and it hits him that his brother has to be feeling more disgust than he is. 

"I'm so sorry," Luther says again, guilt riddling his voice.

He feels relief crawl up his arm.

He brings his hand up to look at it. A pearly substance glints on his hand and some slowly and methodically drips down his arm, barely. It taints his soul mark and before his very eyes it's starting to fade away.

He can't help that he's relieved.

He watches for another moment before wiping his hands off. 

His father lied. Luther didn't need to go inside him. Why would he say that? Why would he? He trembles as his wrist starts to turn to ice.

"Please forgive me," Luther says and he puts a hand on his head and pats.

Luther ignores him.

"I shouldn't have made you do that."

He rubs a circle on Luther's back.

"I'm selfish aren't I?"

He clenches a hand in his back.

"That isn't true," he whispers only to have Luther turn around and slap his hand away.

"If I wasn't so weak you wouldn't have been forced to do that! It was disgusting and I made you do it."

The name on Luther's wrist is gone.

He closes his eyes for a moment before he sighs. "That isn't true," he lets his hand lay lifelessly on his bed as a flame flickers up his spin.

"It is!"

"Luther," he says grasping his brother's arm, showing him the pale skin. "It's gone now."

Luther looks at it in silence.

"You're fine, I'm fine, it's all fine."

Luther nods.

He drops his hand and just closes his eyes again, his flames are flickering out and he just wants to sleep although he knows it isn't time for that.

Luther blinks at him blankly, as if maybe he feels the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are more typos than usual I swear I’ll be back at some point to get those.


	18. Chapter 18

Their father doesn't unlock the door until what feels like hours later. Not that they were in any real rush to get out. The air is full of tension and his skin is sticky in the worse ways.

They haven't said much of anything to each other.

It's to be expected, he knows. He did something bad, he should be apologizing but he won't. Not now, not when Luther feels so guilty.

He wouldn't mind taking the fall if Luther needed it. If Luther can't handle it, if he needs someone to blame he'll let him blame him. He'd accept it which is why he isn't apologizing yet.

His father doesn't say anything and neither do they.

He gets off the bed and walks past his father. Only stopping for a moment to make sure Luther is fine. His brother gives him a nod. He nods his head back and walks off.

He needs the bathroom.

He needs to scrub his hands clean.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him before sitting at the side of the tub. He starts the hot water and grabs the bar of soap before rubbing between his hands. He drops the bar and starts to scrub his hands with his dull fingernails.

It hurts.

It makes him feel better.

He doesn't want to remember where he got this filth from. But he knows he's not really filthy, this isn't even anywhere as disgusting as his father was.

Because Luther is his brother, he is his friend, he is his leader it just wasn't as bad. He wants to laugh because he knows that isn't it. It's because he was the one doing the touching, he was the one setting the pace.

He presses his forehead against the porcelain tub and laughs because it's funny. He left his brother there because he's a coward. Because he wants to run away from a truth that keeps creeping up behind him.

He pounds his head off the tub.

He's an idiot.

Luther probably hates him now...even though he'll accept that. He still should have stayed with him.

————————————————————

"Where were you all day? Skipping breakfast, skipping lessons, it's all going to get you in trouble," he just kinda stares back before nodding.

Ben huffs a breath, probably upset that he isn't taking this seriously. He snuggles underneath his covers before scooting over. Ben lifts the covers and slips in.

He closes his eyes.

"Klaus."

He ignores him.

"Are you okay?"

Ben presses a hand against his forehead.

"You know you can talk to me."

He stays silent.

"Klaus you're never quiet."

He opens his eyes before bringing a hand up to rub at his face. He's tired, he just wants to forget. "Dad's been giving me extra training," he answers the first question, finally, although he didn't really want to.

"Oh, really? I guess he was pretty angry this morning." 

He closes his eyes again. "I'm tired," he mumbles against his pillow as he decides he isn't going to open his eyes again.

Ben doesn't speak anymore.

Everything is fine. His heartbeat slows down, his breathing evens out, sleep is coming for him. Although it's early, although he'll get in trouble for missing dinner, although his father will have another reason to hate him.

At the moment he just doesn't care, it's not like he's hungry anyway. His appetite is nearly nonexistent at this point.

"I thought you weren't worrying about me," he whispers it, the most coherent thought he has at the moment.

"You make it hard not to."

He agrees although for once he's not doing it intentionally.

————————————————————

Maybe he is.

Maybe this is all his fault. Maybe it's intentional. He isn't sure anymore.

As he's lying there in bed, moonlight twinkling over his body he figures there must be a sign on his forehead that says abuse me. Make me feel filthy, make me shove my fingers down my own throat so I can hurl up the disgust, make me want to die. His forehead must say all that and more in big neon lights to his father.

He pinches himself.

He shouldn't have gone to bed early, he should have fought it because now it's night and he isn't tired, at all. He just woke up. Ben left him at some point, probably for dinner, and no one ever came to get him.

He isn't sure if that's good or bad.

He sighs as a floorboard creaks outside his door. He looks, slowly, for a moment his mind imagines a monster standing there. With long white fangs dripping with crimson blood and eyes blacker than the night sky.

He blinks the vision away and all that's left is Vanya. She walks inside while opening her mouth. "Are you okay?" She says while she goes to sit at the side of his bed. He sits upright and stares at her for a moment.

He seems to be asked that question a lot lately and what is he supposed to say? No, my dad likes to touch me in strange ways? No, my dad made me touch my own brother? No, I don't think I'll ever be okay again?

He isn't sure what Vanya expects him to say. She stares, a hand hovering across her chest, and she tilts her head like she's a confused dog. He isn't sure she really understands or if she understands too much.

"Peachy," he says, grabbing her cheeks and pinching, forcing her to smile. "Don't worry so much, I'm sure Five made it all out to be worse than it is."

Vanya pushes his hands off of her and frowns. "He said dad...touched you," she swallows after she speaks, she cast her eyes away.

He gets the sudden urge to push her away. Because she's getting too close, she's irritating a sore spot, she's making him uncomfortable. He needs her to stop caring about him because he's self-conscious.

He bites his tongue and ignores his thoughts. He's worked so hard for someone to believe him and now he wants to push her away? There must be something wrong with him.

"A little bit," he says, giving her a fake smile. 

Her eyes start watering and his heart threatens to pop in his chest.

There's a small knock at the door. He tilts his head fear flickering through him before he sees Allison. She leans against the doorway, a frown on her lips.

"What were you and Luther doing all day?" She asks with venom laced in her voice as if she's accusing him of something.

"Training."

"Really? He seems pretty torn up about it. Did something happen?" Allison's tone shifts to concern.

He looks at Vanya before looking back at Allison and shaking his head. "You know how it is...sometimes dad just doesn't know when to call it quits."

Allison sighs and walks away.

Vanya presses a hand against his cheek and it hits him hard. Her heat travels up his skin and he realizes he hasn't had his heat flash yet. Dread fills him and puke travels up his throat.

It should be happening.

Why isn't it?

His heat flashes and Luther's soul mark weren't connected so he should still have them right? Something bad is brewing, for some reason, some unseeable reason this is all he can think and he's scared.

"I'm tired," he lies because he just wants to be alone. Vanya nods before giving him a pat on his shoulder.

She stands and gives him a smile.

"Good night."

"Night," he mumbles as he snuggles underneath his covers while telling himself he's being dramatic.

————————————————————

He goes to breakfast because he's starving, not because he really wants to. It's a strange air, awkward, and tension-filled.

Luther lays his head in his hand and does nothing but play with his food. Allison looks at him like he's about to die. Which is probably well justified because Luther is never really put down by much of anything- training wise.

Ben looks towards him with concern and he sends back a fake smile which seems to work wonders. He eats his eggs and his pancakes. Slowly, his stomach threatens to throw up everything he swallows.

His father is in a sour mood, he can feel it. His father eats with an air of frustration and his eyes scan each of them again and again. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as the silence draws out.

He keeps expecting something to happen.

Nothing does.

Five fiddles a knife in his hand and he hasn't touched his food but he does nothing. Nothing at all though he looks as if he's about to go off on someone. 

He wonders why the air is so tense or if maybe it isn't tense at all and it's just him that feels this way.

He finishes his meal and sets his head on his hand like Luther is. It just...feels right.

Then the doorbell rings and all of a sudden he's hit with the feeling that this is it.

His father stands and goes to get the door. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the nuclear bomb that's about to come and make everything worse. 

A woman speaks.

He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at the front door. His father stands there, talking with a...fake smile on his lips although to the woman in front of him it probably looks genuine. She smiles too, the scarf around her neck moves each time she speaks.

She looks fancy, high-class even. The purple dress fits her hips nicely, and she even walks with an air of authority.

Something about her makes her seem...eerie. That could just be his anxiety talking though, they rarely ever have guests and he can say they've never had one that came with a suitcase until now.

This is bad.

His father wraps a hand around her shoulders and guides her into the kitchen where he then proceeds to raise his hand up. His sleeve falls down and on his wrist is written in red, raw letters 'Elizabeth.' She raises her hand and it reads 'Reginald.'

His head spins as he watches, as he feels his sibling's excitement. As he feels Vanya's confusion and Five's glare on his skin.

He doesn't know what he's feeling but he knows it's all too much. He's going to throw up, he's going to pass out, he can't control his breathing.

His heart hurts.

"Everyone please meet Elizabeth, from this point foreword she will be staying here and you are to assume we are a couple." His father says it like it's nothing, like it isn't a big deal.

Allison's eyes sparkle with the fact that right before her is true love at its finest.

There is no more explanation, nothing at all to ease his heart. "You are all dismissed," their father says as he turns and guides Elizabeth into the living room to discuss matters.

He doesn't get up. He just stares at his plate before he grasps his knife as his siblings leave. He raises it, watching his reflection in its blade. His eyes are watering and his hand is starting to tremble.

"Klaus?" Vanya says, she's still concerned for him. She's still- he loses the thought as he stands and wraps a hand around her back. He cries against her neck as she pats his back.

Everyone else left.

He can hear her heart beating erratically but even so she holds him tighter. He's glad he has her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here’s the start to a psychological web that Reggie is weaving together for Klaus.


End file.
